I was on duty the first time I tangled with Dudley T. Wolff. The New York Evening Press city editor had given me a special assignment to do a series of feature stories on the defense program. My investigation into the subject of bottlenecks and their causes led me to the Wolff Chemical Corporation, makers of smokeless powder and the various other unstable commodities that are used as filling for bombs and shells. I soon discovered that I had a headline yarn in my lap — and a bull by the tail.

Dudley Wolff was the bull. When my copy hit the front pages from here to the coast and back again he took one quick look and exploded with the same dull thunderous roar his factory would have made had I touched a match to it.

This was no surprise to anyone who knew him. I could have rattled off a column or two of descriptive copy on his reaction well in advance. I had interviewed the lion in his den and I knew very well that tagging him in print as a crusty, blustering old industrial pirate with a whim of armor plate — which he was — would get repercussions. But that was no skin off my hide.

The Evening Press didn’t mind. If Vesuvius was for sale, they’d buy it, set it up in the composing-room, and object if it didn’t perform daily. Their publishing theory was simple: Explosions build circulation.

Dudley Wolff, however, was something special in the volcano line. He had a long and devastating record of eruptions. More than one of them had, on occasion, rocked the Stock Exchange to its foundations and reduced the opposition of some very hard-boiled Wall Street financiers to crisp black ashes. Dudley was a self-made man who didn’t know when to stop.

His boyhood years had been spent in the Chicago stockyard district where poverty had caused him to formulate the general rule: Cut the other guy’s throat before he cuts yours. And, though this system had lately hit a few snags, in the pre-New Deal era when business had gone its own merry way, it had worked successfully enough for Wolff. It had also resulted in making him as domineering, ruthless, and dictatorial as a twenty-ton tank. And twice as flattening.

The second time I met him, however, the battle was fought on my home grounds. The city editor certainly hadn’t sent me out to date Kathryn Wolff. That was my own idea. The only story in it was a very old one, headline news with me, but not with our readers. I wasn’t the Duke of Windsor.

The defense-program story would have blown over eventually and Wolff would have forgotten all about a reporter whose by-line read: Ross Harte. But what had happened to Kathryn and myself showed no sign of blowing over. On the contrary it had reached the point of window shopping for a ring. Dudley Wolff wanted to forget me though. He began by trying to get rid of me.

Kay and I had both heard that old one about the course of true love being rocky and replete with hairpin turns. Neither of us believed that any such whiskered adage could possibly apply to us. But when Wolff discovered what was going on we found out differently. He promptly supplied so many bumps that the course of our affections seemed to have been laid out by a hard-drinking roller-coaster designer.

Dudley, it developed, had a rigid set of specifications that must be met by any suitor for his daughter’s hand. On my first test run I checked in with a score of zero minus.

“That young scandalmonger,” Wolff had roared in his best howitzer manner, “certainly has his nerve! He libels me in print and then thinks it would be nice if he married my daughter! Is he crazy? Or does he think I am? Can’t you see what his game is, Kathryn? He has the social background of a flea and a reporter’s salary. He wants to marry money. But he won’t. Not this trip! I don’t want to hear him mentioned again! Do you understand?”

Kathryn, having inherited her due share of the Wolff temper, very nearly did some blowing up of her own. Nearly, but not quite. She knew from past experience that this was an instance where a more subtle strategy was needed. Open opposition would only intensify his determination. Quickly, before she should burst out and tell him what she thought of such medieval, highhanded behavior, she turned and walked out on him.

He got what he asked for, too. He heard nothing more from her about me for the time being. But Kay was as stubborn as her father. We saw each other just as much as ever, in fact, rather more. And we discussed, though without much success, ways and means of undermining the Wolff dictatorship. What we really needed was a mechanized division or two, complete with antitank guns and flame throwers.

The odds against us, in the meantime, climbed steadily. As a direct result of my all-out reportorial attack on the Wolff Chemical Corporation and its methods, the Senate Munitions Committee had summoned Dudley to Washington and laid down a barrage of embarrassing questions. Our Capitol correspondent reported that he hadn’t had so much fun since the Louis-Schmeling fight. But neither Kay nor I was amused. And the evening of the day on which her father returned from this fracas was definitely not one of the moments we had discussed as being favorable to a reopening of the matter of our engagement. Unluckily, that is just when it came up.

I had gone out to the Wolff estate, some twenty-five miles from New York near Mamaroneck, to get Kay. Theater passes, wangled from the drama editor, were in my pocket. The house was built close by the edge of Long Island Sound at the end of a long drive that curved sinuously up from the gatehouse on the Post Road. It pretended to be an English Gothic manor though it was not to the manner born, but had, instead, been built in the 20’s according to one of the standard sets of blueprints that the more conservative architectural firms of the day dusted off whenever a self-made millionaire walked in and said, “I want a house.”

The landscape architect had likewise used a common or garden-variety planting design. He had placed a tight girdle of conical evergreens about the house which, in the course of time, had grown until they now resembled a horde of fat-bellied elves in high, pointed hats who crowded close about and peered in at the lower-floor windows.

The Wolff house did not have the usual swimming pools both upstairs and down. It was the medium size for millionaires with families of three, plus servants; but it was still, at least for my taste, too big to look hospitable. The inky starless sky and the biting February wind that swirled thin, icy flakes of snow around it were no help either. Nor was Phillips, the butler.

When he opened the door and found me on the stoop, an undercurrent of doubt disturbed the smooth, pink surface of his professional poker face. He hesitated perceptibly before he said, “I’ll tell Miss Kathryn that you are here.”

I didn’t blame him much. He was in a spot too. Dudley Wolff had obviously ordered him to put out the smallpox sign when I showed, while Kathryn had insisted that he let me in.

Then she came down the stairs. I forgot Phillips, Dudley Wolff, the weather, and the expensively interior-decorated gloom that filled the house. The shining welcome in her eyes and the quick, glad way she came to greet me made me forget a lot of things, including, as we turned to go, my hat. It wasn’t February any more; it was spring. And when, just outside the door, away from Phillips’s eagle eye, she put her face up to be kissed, it was June.

Kay, as far as I was concerned, was just what the doctor ordered. She was blond with deep sea-blue eyes that sparkled like Long Island Sound in yachting season. Unaffected by a too close association with an almost criminal amount of wealth, she actively disliked the social whirl that was supposed to go with it. Horses, café society, Philadelphia weddings bored her. She much preferred maneuvering an Atlantic-class sailboat with an expert touch that had netted her a shiny collection of racing cups. She was also a pushover for anything that went on behind footlights.

Her father had discovered these variations from the norm when he had tried to apply the customary coat of finishing-school education at the Misses Taylor’s Select School for Girls. Kay, allergic to anything resembling a pink tea, had nearly finished the Taylor sisters instead. The breaking point came during a rehearsal for the Dramatic Society’s year-end show when, for the private amusement of the cast, she substituted for her scheduled Ruth Draper sketch, “Bon Voyage,” an original impersonation of her own titled “It Takes Nine Taylors to Make a Man.” This Thespian broadside, directed at a couple of stuffed shirtwaists, with an utter lack of Daisy Chain decorum and all the subtlety of a custard pie, landed in the midst of a hush like the one that comes just before an executioner throws the switch. The Taylor sisters themselves had unexpectedly entered, as they so often did, at precisely the wrong moment.

Kay, who recognized a climax when she saw it, beat her victims to the draw by catching the next train out of town. It was two weeks before her father’s private detectives found her up to her neck in grease paint at a Connecticut summer theater. Dudley, on that occasion, had for once given in and permitted her enrollment at a dramatic school. But she still didn’t have him tamed quite as thoroughly as we could have wished. The subject of marriage was one on which he had decided to stand no nonsense — meaning me.

As we went out and down the wide steps toward the Drive-It-Yourself jalopy I had waiting, a long gleaming Rolls floated up the drive. We didn’t notice until too late.

When Kay saw it, her hand tightened on mine and her voice had a faintly hollow sound. “Hold your hat, darling. Here it comes!”

I saw the car’s occupant get out. I groaned. “I thought it was in Washington!”

“He was,” Kay replied. “But the Inquisition recessed for the week-end. I thought we’d get away before he came.”

“He’ll be in a lovely mood after the going over Senator Budge gave him this morning. Do you have a bomb shelter?”

Mood was no word for it. Why the snow did not melt for a radius of thirty feet around when Wolff saw me don’t know. I halt expected jonquils and tulips to pop up at any moment. It was just as well that they stayed put. They were safer underground.

Wolff’s scowl as he moved toward us was sulphurous. He was short, stocky, as dynamic as high-voltage current and harder to handle. What he lacked in stature he made up in thunder. He started talking ten feet away, rather like the first act of Aïda, elephants and all.

“I thought I told you, Kathryn, that I did not want to see this — this young man again?”

Kay’s small square chin stuck out defiantly. She wasn’t walking out on him this time. It was the pay-off.

“No.” She shook her head. “That wasn’t what you said. You didn’t want to hear any more about him. You haven’t.”

“And I don’t intend to!” The glance Wolff turned on me felt as if it had been reflected, en route, from an iceberg. His voice had dropped to fifty or sixty below zero too. “I want to see you a moment, Mr. Harte. In my study. Now!”

It was an imperial command issued with just as much assurance as though there were an official executioner on duty to compel obedience. Wolff turned and started up the steps.

Kay’s voice, taut and just as determined, stopped him. “Ross is taking me to the theater. We’re late. It will be much more convenient if you ask him for an appointment tomorrow.”

This was a frank declaration of war. The thought of Dudley T. Wolff requesting an appointment of anyone short of a Supreme Court justice was so fantastic as to be heretical. From now on no quarter would be asked, or expected. Hell was going to pop.

Wolff gave his daughter a long steady look. The bulldog line of his jaw was grim. His black, jutting eyebrows bristled ominously.

“You sound serious about this,” he said.

Kay stood her ground. “I am.”

Wolff turned to me. “Unfortunately she’s of age. She thinks she knows what she wants. She’s wrong, and if I have anything to say about it—”

“But, since I am of age,” Kay cut in, “do you have anything to say about it?”

He ignored that. “Are you stubborn too, Harte?”

I nodded. “I can be.”

“All right. We know where we stand. In those articles of yours, you said I was stubborn. I’ll show you what the word means. Kathryn inherits a few million dollars at my death. Tomorrow morning I’ll change that. She’ll get it only provided she sees nothing more of you. Still stubborn?”

When Dudley Wolff rolled up his sleeves, he didn’t fool. I tried to throw a little oil on the waters.

“It’s Kay I happen to be interested in, Mr. Wolff. Not her inheritance.”

He wasn’t having any. “You’d say that, of course. But with your salary and prospects you can’t avoid being interested in—”

Kay was mad now. “Father,” she said quickly. “You might as well face it. You’re stopped this time — cold. You can leave the money to Anne, or to a home for cats. But I’ve taken all the orders I can stand. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t wear pigtails and short dresses now. Come on, Ross. We’ll miss the first curtain.”

This did stop Wolff — for nearly two seconds. He realized now, for the first time I think, that Kay really was serious. Then he led trumps.

“Kathryn, if you leave here now, with him, you won’t be coming back.”

It was a line straight out of a bad play. But it sounded real enough when he said it. I really think he meant it.

Kay’s eyes, even in that dim light, flashed. Her white face, framed by the bright scarf tied around her blond hair and the high collar of the mink coat, was as grimly determined in its own way as her father’s had ever been. Bluff or not she called it.

“That’s plain enough, Ross,” she said. “I seem to be on my own from here. Does your offer still hold?”

“License in the morning at nine,” I said, “if you’re quite sure—”

“I’m sure,” she smiled, taking my hand.

But Dudley Wolff wouldn’t admit he was licked. “And then what?” he asked. “Perhaps I had better tell you something you don’t know about yourself, Harte. That salary I mentioned a moment ago. You don’t have it any more. You’ve been fired!”

This was so unexpected that I blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, suddenly, a mental skyrocket zoomed up and burst in my head. The lights it made were not pretty ones.

“So that’s it,” I said. “You’re J. H. Wilson?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Kay, bewildered, asked, “Ross, what—”

I told her. “Your father does things in a big way. The editorial policy of the Press seems to have got under his skin. A mysterious Mr. Wilson, the little man nobody seems to know, has been busy as a bee the last week or so buying up stock in the Press Publishing Company. He’s been trying hard to get control, money no object. Apparently he has succeeded.”

Wolff’s reply was twice as confident as an old time oil stock prospectus. “I always succeed,” he said.

“You mean you nearly always have,” Kay contradicted. “But this time — Come on, Ross. We’re going to be busy.” She started for the car.

I made my mistake then. I stopped her. “Wait, Kay. Take it slow. I’m not so sure you realize just what goes on here. The Harte bank account would go blue in the face and collapse under the strain without that weekly check to relieve the pressure. Somehow I don’t seem to have done any long-range financial planning for this sort of an emergency. And you’re used to eating regularly—”

I wasn’t exaggerating. I have always been a lousy accountant, and the mysterious way in which my income has always managed to melt before ever seeing the inside of a bank has always amazed me. Remembering several unopened letters lately received from the bank, I rather suspected that the checking account was overdrawn. And the balance showing in what the bank jokingly referred to as my savings account would collapse without even a dull thud if it was faced with the prospect of serving for two. I was afraid that Kay, whose gilt-edged upbringing and whose offhand jettisoning of the Wolff fortune indicated a lack of perspective as to financial matters, might be in for a rude jolt about ten minutes after the justice of the peace had given us his blessing.

I was sure that she hadn’t the remotest conception of the vast interstellar distances that separated the standard of living she had always known from the one she would suddenly have to get used to. I knew that the least I could do was give her fair warning in advance.

Emotions are the damnedest things. Kay was suffering an attack of them now, and my explanations didn’t even get under way.

“Bank account,” she said, turning. Then she slammed the car door. “You’re alike, both of you! You can’t think of anything but money. As if that were all that—”

“But Kay,” I started. “Some of us must. You never have because—”

I didn’t finish. She was gone, running up the steps toward the house. I realized then that Dudley Wolff was, after all, her father, and that defying him as she had just done had been for her a distinctly upsetting emotional experience. Then, when I suddenly seemed to back water and let her down, she folded. I didn’t blame her much.

I turned toward Wolff and found him grinning at me in a complacent, well-that-settles-your-hash manner that made me boil up and over. He had all the tact of a hippopotamus.

The Harte family temper let loose with a few fireworks of its own then. Caution went overboard and the applecart tipped completely over.

“You,” I said flatly, “are a tinhorn Mussolini. How Kay has managed to stick it around here as long as this, I don’t know. She’d be happier on relief. I will marry her now — in spite of hell, high water, and you! Excuse me!”

I took the steps after Kay three at a time.

“Harte!” Wolff roared. “If you go through that door I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering!”

I didn’t bother to answer.

As I went in I heard him call to the chauffeur who still waited in the car. “Leonard! Get him! Use gloves if possible. But don’t take any back talk. Get him out of here!”

He meant it too. I suspected that Leonard had been hired largely on account of the muscular shoulders that bulged beneath his uniform and the slightly cauliflower ear that indicated a belligerent past. He weighed twenty pounds more than I did and had a longer reach. I had no desire to tangle with him.

There was, as it turned out, no need to. Phillips blocked my way just inside and informed me politely but firmly that Miss Kathryn had retired to her room leaving distinct orders that she was not to be disturbed by anyone. She had, he added, particularly mentioned me. That tore it.

Leonard strode in through the doorway, an ominous look of anticipation on his capable face. Wolff, at his heels, breathed flame. I knew when I was licked. Without Kay’s moral support there was nothing I could do but retreat as gracefully as possible. Even if I could somehow manage to outmaneuver Leonard, the other hired reinforcements Wolff could call up outnumbered me six to one. If I put up a battle I’d only find myself leaving in a station wagon — one that had the words Police Department lettered on its side.

I tried to match Wolff’s scowl with one of my own and failed. He had had much more practice.

“Okay,” I growled. “But I’ll be back.”

I went out and slammed the door behind me hard. It was a solid affair of heavy oak and it made a quite satisfactory bang. But that wasn’t enough to iron out the wrinkles in my disposition. I slammed the door of my car too, and jabbed my foot furiously against the starter. The car, goaded into too abrupt action, growled; its exhaust roared like Dudley Wolff at his worst and it jerked forward. The gears clashed angrily as I shifted into high.

I still haven’t the remotest notion how I missed colliding head on with one or another of the line of Lombardy poplars that bordered the winding drive long before I reached the gatehouse. I must have a guardian angel.

If I do, she didn’t follow through. Perhaps it was when I passed the police car on an upgrade at seventy per that she decided it was more than she could handle. The banshee howl of the siren that rose instantly behind me was enough to scare her off in itself.

I swore feelingly and pulled over. The officer boarded me, spitting fire in a way that indicated the technique was not exclusive with Dudley Wolff. My disturbed emotional state had apparently shunted too much adrenaline over into the blood stream because I spit some fire right back at him. He promptly deduced that my attitude did not contain nearly enough respect for the majesty of the law. This decision resulted a few moments later in reckless driving and disorderly conduct charges, and a heart-to-heart talk with the desk sergeant at the near-by Mamaroneck police station. I had gained control again by then and tried to exert a belated soothing influence.

He didn’t soothe easily. It took all my diplomatic skill to induce him to keep the amount of the bond down to the twenty-five I had on me. As for the summons to appear in court Monday morning, that was a subject he flatly refused to discuss under any circumstances, the present ones in particular.

I realize now that the gift of clairvoyance might have helped. If some occult sixth sense, or perhaps a crystal ball in good working order, had shown me what was happening back in the Wolff mansion, I might have successfully distracted official attention from myself. I could have given the sergeant a report that would have curled his hair — and mine too.

But I wasn’t psychic. I didn’t find out until nearly two weeks later that, as I argued with the police, one of the persons I had left behind in the Wolff house was busily making the first moves in a cleverly calculated, and completely unique, design for murder.

When the police, Merlini, and myself did investigate we eventually obtained the evidence of certain witnesses which enabled us to reconstruct in detail the astonishing series of events that took place just after I left the Wolff house.

We discovered that, as the door slammed, Dudley Wolff had turned to the chauffeur and said, “All right, Leonard. That’s all.”

Leonard nodded and went out. The butler took Wolff’s coat and hat.

“Doctor Haggard and Mr. Galt are waiting for you,” he reported. “In the library.”

Wolff scowled. “Oh? Haggard too?”

Phillips nodded. “Yes. He phoned half an hour ago to say that he wanted to see you urgently. When I told him that you were expected shortly, he came over at once. Shouldn’t I have done that, sir?”

Wolff grunted. “Ummmpf. That’s quite all right, Phillips. Tell Mrs. Wolff I’m here.”

“Yes, sir. Have you dined?”

Wolff nodded. He strode toward the tall library doors that opened on the left. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “And Phillips,” he added. “When Mr. Harte phones, Kathryn is out, indisposed, or whatever seems to be necessary. If he should return, he is not to be admitted on any account. If you have trouble, get Leonard. That’s a standing order. Understand?”

Phillips allowed that he did.

“And bring me something to drink,” Wolff added. “I need it.”

Storm clouds and the rolling mutter of thunder were everywhere within the Wolff house that night. The tension that existed in the library between the two men who waited there had such a consistently high voltage that the Edison Company might have tapped it as a new source of electric power. Their views on certain fundamental subjects differed as black from white. Neither thought the other’s arguments worth a plugged nickel, and both were completely frank about saying so. A commission of international diplomatic experts would have reported the situation as hopeless.

The reason for their profound disagreement becomes obvious as soon as you know that Doctor Sydney Haggard was an experimental biologist and that Francis Galt was the director of the American Psychic Research Laboratories. Haggard, thirty-five, brisk, clinically efficient, good-looking, was a strict empiricist. He was a good example of the end result of thorough scientific training — the complete skeptic. If you made a simple conversational observation on the probable state of tomorrow’s weather, he was as likely as not to ask you to supply Weather Bureau findings reduced to mathematical formulas and plotted accurately on graph paper. He wouldn’t be convinced until you had.

Galt was an older man, lean, quick-moving, somewhat nervous. If, because some of his theories were unfamiliar, you suspected they were made of moonstuff, it was no reason to underestimate the alertness of the mind that lay behind his owlish round spectacles and sharp gray-green eyes.

He was an authority in his field too, a field that irked Doctor Haggard because it begins at the precise point where science leaves off. As Galt himself once put it, he rushes in where science fears to tread. He was a man in love with the mysterious and the unknown. Riddles and enigmas, any apparently occult phenomena, fascinated him as long as they remained unexplained. If some commonplace answer was forthcoming, he lost interest.

The warfare between these two was constant except in Wolff’s presence. They agreed then to a temporary armistice because the millionaire, though he usually loved a scrap, didn’t care for this one. They found it expedient to respect his wishes since they were both indebted to him for underwriting their researches. Patrons having Wolff’s temperament need gentle handling.

Hostilities ceased as soon as Wolff entered the library. Galt and Haggard both greeted him politely. But the doctor frowned. He noticed at once that Wolff was not exactly in a charitable mood. Angry annoyance, left over from the scene with Kathryn and myself, was still plainly evident in his voice.

He nodded brusquely at the doctor and said, “Galt is here for the week-end because he said that he had something important to report. As usual, I suspect that means more funds. You’ve evidently got something important to report too. What is it this time? Your need for a newer and bigger centrifuge or another mechanical heart?”

The startled look in the doctor’s eyes told Wolff that he had hit the mark squarely. He took a fat cigar from a box on the table and ripped off its cellophane wrapper.

Haggard, not too seriously, said, “Perhaps there is something in Galt’s telepathy after all. That’s just what I do need. Both of them. But I have progress to report also. And it is important.

Wolff was interested but not exactly enthusiastic. “I’ve heard you say that before. But you’ll have to show me. Sometimes the progress that you consider important—”

“I know, you want miracles. But a problem like this can’t be licked overnight, not with the apparatus and assistance I have now.”

Wolff’s scowl and the blue puffs of smoke that he exhaled gave him the appearance of an angry dragon. “The best biological lab in the country outside the Rockefeller Institute, and it’s not enough! All right, and this goes for you too, Galt. Suppose I do give you everything you want? I’m damned impatient. I can’t wait much longer. What guarantee can the two of you give me that you’ll get the results I want?”

Both men frowned uneasily. Wolff was being even more difficult tonight than usual. He knew as well as they did that no guarantees could be made at all. Haggard, until now, had been confident that he would get what he needed. Being a medical man, he knew why Wolff wanted those results. He had divined what few other people suspected, the fact that beneath his blustering, growling, hard-shelled exterior Dudley Wolff lived in mortal fear. His pyrotechnical outbursts of temper, his devil-take-the-hindmost business methods, even his business of munitions manufacture and his allied hobby of firearm collecting were all nothing more than a deceptive, carefully built-up defense mechanism. The sound-and-fury was a dense smoke screen that had concealed, ever since his first wife’s death at the time of Kay’s birth, a consuming inner fear. Dudley Wolff suffered acutely from an overwhelming inward terror of death.

This was the psychological mainspring that dictated most of his outward actions. It showed itself in perverse form in his manner, his work, and his hobby. It was also evident in more direct ways. Death, because he stood in frantic fear of it, fascinated him. He was filled with an abnormal curiosity to know what happened after death and tried to satisfy it by endowing the ghostly other-world researches of Francis Galt. He sought for ways and means of avoiding, or at least postponing, the inevitable by assisting the longevity experiments that were Doctor Haggard’s chief interest.

Wolff pointed his cigar at Galt’s lean, thick-spectacled face. “I gave you a psychic laboratory better equipped than Harry Price’s in London. You have all the gadgets and the best obtainable technical assistance. But what have you got to show for it? You’ve exposed several dozen fraudulent mediums, investigated a score of haunted houses, and secured some very interesting photographs of the human aura which have nothing to do with the case. You’ve found a handful of psychics whose phenomena you can’t explain — not coherently anyway. And you’ve amassed several filing cases of data on hyperesthesia, telekinesis, and the various forms of trance state. But it doesn’t add up. I still don’t know what happens when a person dies. Nearly all your evidence on that point is damned contradictory. I’m convinced that something happens. It has to. But I don’t know much more about it than Doctor Haggard here does.”

The doctor took one of the drinks which the butler offered. “I know nothing about it at all,” he said. “I strongly suspect there isn’t anything to know. You’re looking for evidence you can’t find because it isn’t there. Life is a physicochemical process and nothing more. When you throw in metaphysics, it’s pure wishful thinking.”

Galt growled irritably. “I have found evidence,” he contradicted. “Good evidence. But you won’t admit that—”

“What evidence?” Wolff cut in.

“The Zugun and the Garrett cases. They’re sound enough and they certainly appear to indicate—”

“Indicate!” Wolff snorted. “Indicate, yes. But that’s not enough!” He brought his fist down on the table. “I want proof!” He pointed his cigar at Haggard again, handling it as if it were a deadly and loaded weapon. “As for you, you’re like all the rest of the science boys. You’re an authority in your own specialized field. And the rest of the time you know just about enough to come in out of the rain. You dismiss the whole subject of psychic research as medieval nonsense without ever having bothered to take a quick look at it close up. The scientific attitude! If that’s a sample—”

“But your psychics,” Haggard objected, knowing that argument with Wolff was distinctly not recommended, but unable to resist, “they all turn out to be frauds eventually, quacks of the worst sort who want money or notoriety or both.”

Francis Galt wasn’t going to let that one pass. His eyes flashed dangerously behind his thick spectacles. “That’s not true! There are and have been many mediums who didn’t need money, who didn’t want, even avoided publicity, who—”

“I’ll bet they got it though,” Haggard insisted. “And suppose that there is an honest, sincere medium now and then. I can explain that. They’re psychopathic cases, victims of hallucination who deceive themselves as well as the investigators. A little thoroughgoing medical or psychiatric treatment in the right places would lay a lot of ghosts.”

“What about Lodge, Flammarion, Professor Zöllner?” Galt asked hotly. “Are you saying that investigators of that caliber were hoodwinked by mental cases?”

Haggard, noting Wolff’s stormy expression, wished that he hadn’t started this. But he stuck to his guns. “I’m afraid so,” he insisted. “They were bamboozled. Conan Doyle too. Lodge was emotionally upset by the death of his son, and they were all operating under the handicap of age, their powers of accurate observation, their logical faculties impaired. The structural degeneration of nervous cells due to senescence is—”

Galt, in his late fifties and a good score of years older than Haggard, took this as a personal thrust. “And you,” he said acidly, “couldn’t be fooled, I suppose?”

Haggard shook his head. “I won’t say that. Thurston used to mystify me when he apparently sawed a lady in two. But I never tried very seriously to dope it out. It was entertainment. Knowing how would spoil it. Besides, since it was admitted trickery, puzzling it out is not worth the effort.”

“You’re confident that you could figure out something like that though?”

Haggard smiled. “Well, it shouldn’t be nearly as difficult as trying to chart the growth processes of somatic cells in culture or tracking an enzyme to its lair.”

Galt smiled too. “You’re in for an unpleasant surprise one of these days,” he predicted. “Nature’s only mystery is her complexity. She isn’t trying to deceive you consciously as magicians or as some mediums do. It’s a big difference. A trick fools you because it utilizes some very simple laws of deception — operating principles that treacherously double-cross your logic. The more experienced a logician you are, the more formal are your thought patterns, the easier they are to short-circuit, and the harder you fall. Children, unused to formal logic, not scientists, are the magician’s most difficult audiences. You’re skeptical. Then listen!”

Galt leaned forward in his chair and placed his finger tips lightly on the table. The doctor and Wolff both heard the sound almost at once, a low rapping noise as of ghostly knuckles against wood. It had no visible source. Low at first, it came repeatedly, steady and louder.

“You’re so damned logical,” Galt challenged. “Explain that. It’s trickery.”

Haggard obviously was puzzled, but he didn’t let it disturb him greatly. “I’ll take your word for it, Galt. But, if I had you in my laboratory and if you repeated that to order under strict test conditions, I’d soon know the answer. However, I have more important things to do than—”

“Yes,” Dudley Wolff broke in heavily. “You do. Stop arguing with him, Galt. You’re right. He’d get himself a lovely headache trying to solve that one with his test tubes and galvanometers. It took us six months to find out how Kramer did it.”

Wolff turned to the doctor. “You mentioned old age a moment ago. You’ve been promising you’d do something about that. Theoretically there’s no reason a man cannot extend his life span far beyond its present limits. Parrots, some of them, reach ages of a hundred years and more; reptiles like the tortoise nearly two hundred; and some species of fishes outlive them by sixty to seventy years. Sequoia trees reach three thousand, and without showing any evidence of senile changes in tissue. Unicellular life, barring accident, is to all intents and purposes immortal. There is no convincing evidence that living tissue needs to die. But when are you going to stop working on rats, cats, and dogs and show me—”

“Tomorrow!” Doctor Haggard stood up and drew a spiral-edged notebook from his breast pocket. He dropped it on the table before Wolff. “I’m on the right track at last. I’m sure of it. The germ of the answer is there in those notes. I’ve got a serum now that—”

Wolff leafed quickly through the book scowling at the complex chemical formulas and the charts showing the comparative mortality curves of science’s old friend the fruit fly, Drosophila melanogaster.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll listen to the lecture later. If it makes sense you can have what you need. Everything but time. I haven’t got much more of that to give. And just remember that from now on I’m not buying any more fine-spun theories no matter how ingenious. I can get those for nothing. I want results and I want them—”

Wolff stopped and turned toward the door. A slender, sallow-faced man had appeared there quietly. He stood just inside, a worried look on his face, his hands moving nervously. His voice was not too steady.

“Pardon me, Mr. Wolff. I must see you for a moment, privately.”

Wolff scowled. “Can’t it wait, Dunning?”

Dunning shook his head. “No, sir. It’s most urgent. It—”

Wolff stood up. He said, “Excuse me,” then crossed quickly toward the man at the door.

Albert Dunning was Wolff’s private secretary. His appearance was commonplace, so much so that he seemed to possess a curious protective coloration which enabled him to blend almost unnoticeably with the wallpaper. Few people ever looked at him twice. Those that did wondered how such a frail, anemic-looking person had ever lasted two years in the employment of a man like Wolff who used up and discarded secretaries nearly as fast as he did razor blades.

But Dunning had managed to last much longer than most. His sincere interest in and meticulous care for the firearm collection, rivaling Wolff’s own, was one reason. The others were a precise, robot efficiency and a ducklike ability to shed the Wolff insults and temper tantrums with what seemed to be the greatest of ease.

Dunning’s voice as he spoke to Wolff was low and rapid. Galt and Haggard couldn’t make out the words, but they saw the millionaire’s bushy eyebrows lift in surprise and then flatten ominously. Wolff looked around toward them.

“Back in a minute,” he said, then hurried out the door. The puffs of cigar smoke that floated in his wake were disturbed angry ones.

Dunning vanished after him as silently as one of Galt’s ghosts.

“You should investigate Dunning some time,” the doctor commented as he poured himself another drink. “I shouldn’t wonder if he’d turn out to be a zombie.”

Galt, though annoyed by what he had considered an unsportsmanlike attempt on Haggard’s part to undermine his position with Wolff, apparently had a sense of humor. He made no verbal answer, but the doctor heard the spirit knocks again, tapping softly and mockingly.

Dudley Wolff charged up the stairs toward his study. His none too steady blood pressure had been bubbling up near the danger point pretty constantly the last few days. Tonight’s events hadn’t helped the condition any. And now, a few moments after he burst in at the study door, something happened that made him boil over completely. He really exploded this time.

Dunning’s report concerned a strange and, he thought, sinister individual who had mysteriously appeared in Wolff’s office-study on the second floor. The butler, whom Dunning had queried on his way down, denied ever admitting the man.

The secretary had walked into the study and discovered a man he had never seen before calmly running through some personal papers in Wolff’s files. The stranger had seemed in no way startled or disturbed by Dunning’s entrance, and had made no attempt to escape. Instead, he had simply shoved the file drawer to, sat himself down in a chair before the desk, and said quite calmly, “Tell Dudley Wolff that I want to see him here. Now.”

Dunning, who made and kept track of Wolff’s appointments with all the deadly precision of a time clock, was upset by the incident. He had protested and tried to question the man, but had received no reply except for an insolent smile and the blunt repeated command, “Get Wolff!”

He was still sitting there quite calmly when Wolff barged in. He was an odd sort of man, though the oddness was something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He was dressed soberly enough in a smooth-fitting dark overcoat, white scarf, and a black hat which he showed no intention of removing. His face was thin, sharp-featured, ascetic. His black eyes set in deep hollows burned brightly. A thin penciling of dark mustache crossed his upper lip and descended down around each side of his mouth to meet the small close-cropped black beard that covered his chin. Although his skin was white, here was a hint of accent in his voice that Dunning couldn’t quite place. The man was, furthermore, anything but polite.

“Who,” Dudley Wolff demanded, “are you?”

The stranger looked at Dunning. “Get your secretary out of here. My business with you is private.”

There was an insolence not only in his words but in his whole manner that affected Wolff like so much hot red pepper. The millionaire’s complexion grew dark with all the rapidity of litmus paper in the presence of undiluted hydrochloric acid and his voice thundered like a Heaviside war chariot racing over cobblestones.

“You go to hell! Who the devil are you? What the blazing hell do you want? Why—”

The intruder reacted to Wolff vocal bombing attack as if he were miles away, safe underground in a deep mine. Only his eyes were watchful and careful. His thin-lipped mouth curved in what seemed to be a smile, although there was no humor in it.

“Smith will do for a name,” he said, his low steady voice cutting in across Wolff’s deep bellowing one. “And I repeat, get your secretary out of here!”

The old question of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object seemed about to be answered.

The pitch of Wolff’s voice changed. It was, suddenly, more like the crackling of a shorted electric cable.

“Dunning! Telephone. Police.”

Albert Dunning approached the desk, beside which the sinister Mr. Smith sat, gingerly. He put out his hand to pick up the phone. But no lightning struck. The man only grinned again, his sharp eyes still on Wolff.

Dunning started to dial. Then he stopped, frowned, and depressed the bar in the phone cradle once or twice. The stranger, still grinning, poked at the telephone cord that led down over the desk to the bell box by the baseboard. The point of his cane hooked under it and lifted it for their inspection. It ended abruptly three feet from the phone in a neatly sliced end.

“I thought it might be wise,” Smith said. “You’re too hasty, Wolff. If you continue to act in this manner you’ll regret it. When I tell you why I am here you will wish that you had dismissed this man—” he nodded at Dunning—“as I asked.”

“Asked!” Wolff growled, infuriated by the man’s calmly impudent manner. “You have a damned funny way of asking. Get to the point. What do you want?”

Wolff had moved in closer. He stood above the man, looking down, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. The stranger didn’t appear to notice. He glanced once again at Dunning, then shrugged.

“I want money,” he said. “Naturally.” His gloved hand slid in beneath his coat. Dunning sucked in his breath. Wolff’s right arm flexed as if to strike out.

But they heard the crinkle of paper and saw the man’s hand come out again, holding not a weapon but a long envelope of legal size.

Mr. Smith put down his cane and used both hands to open it. He removed several long, narrow, glossy photographic prints, spread them fanwise between his fingers slightly, and extended them in Wolff’s direction. Dunning caught a glimpse. They appeared to be facsimile photographs of checks. He also caught a brief flash of the envelope’s interior and of something there that looked suspiciously like the negatives from which the prints had been made. He saw Wolff’s eyes narrow and knew that he too had seen them.

Wolff stared at the prints. Then, suddenly, he let the stranger have his way. “Dunning,” he said grimly, “I’ll handle this. Wait outside.”

The secretary hesitated. “Are you sure—”

“Yes. Get out!”

Dunning turned and left hastily, closing the door behind him. He didn’t go far, but dropped on one knee and investigated the keyhole.

“That’s more like it,” he heard Smith say. “You shouldn’t let everyone know about something like this, you know.”

“Where did you get these?” Wolff asked coldly.

Smith ignored the question. “Interesting, aren’t they? And not nice. Particularly if the papers or those senators should see—”

“They’re forgeries,” Wolff protested. “I can prove that.”

Mr. Smith lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Even if you could it would take considerable time. And, meanwhile, the newspapers and the Senate Munitions Committee—” He left the sentence unfinished.

Wolff glared at him. “How much?”

“A hundred thousand. They’re worth more. But that will do.”

“And I get the negatives?”

The man nodded. He made a small gesture with the envelope. “Yes. Of course.”

Wolff said, “I’ll pay ten.” His eyes were steady on his opponent, anger spilling from them — and decision.

“Ten?” Mr. Smith made his little grin again. “I’ll give you one minute. At the end of that time the price will go up to—”

Dudley Wolff never found out what the new rate was going to be. His fist, clenched until his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palm, swung up at the man’s face.

Smith saw the movement in his shoulders. He threw himself back in the chair and tried to twist his head. Wolff’s fist smashed against the side of his jaw and ploughed along his cheek.

Smith’s chair went over backward.

It teetered for a moment in slow motion on its back legs, and then crashed down. Smith’s feet described an arc above his head. His body somersaulted from the chair along the floor, then lay still, face down.

Wolff knelt quickly and scooped the envelope up from the floor. He glanced inside, grinned briefly, and then moved hastily around behind his desk.

His right hand yanked at a drawer, readied in and came out with a revolver. His left shoved the envelope and the prints into his side coat pocket.

“Dunning!” he called.

The secretary pushed the door open.

Wolff pointed at the man on the floor with his gun. “Search him quickly, before he comes to.” His physical explosion had given Wolff control over his temper again, and, though the cold light in his gray eyes still indicated anger, he seemed almost to be enjoying himself now.

Dunning went through Mr. Smith’s pockets. He found nothing at all except some small change and a wallet. He laid these on the table before Wolff. The latter flipped open the billfold.

He blinked for a moment at the card that was there behind the square of celluloid. Then he smiled.

“That fixes him, Dunning. It makes his little blackmail attempt boomerang very nicely.”

The card stated, in the same simple, cold, matter-of-fact way Mr. Smith talked, that William Garner was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Lock that door, Dunning,” Wolff said. “Then see what you can do about a little first aid.”

Dunning started toward the door, then halted. Wolff looked around.

Anne Wolff, Dudley’s wife, stood in the doorway watching them.

“What happened, Dudley? Who is that?” Her voice, though surprised, was cool. Anne Wolff was a cool person, poised, and self-assured. Even her rather startling beauty, as warmly alive as it was, had something of the cool smooth quality of a Grecian marble that comes from a too classic regularity of feature. But, in the deep hazel eyes, there was a glow that told plainly of emotions beneath the surface quite capable of flaring hotly.

Dudley Wolff was fifty-five; she was at least fifteen years his junior and appeared even younger. Her clothes, which had the smart ultra fashion of an Eric drawing, accented this youthful appearance, as did the equally extreme coiffure of her dark hair and the alert lithe way she used her body. This last you noticed even when she stood perfectly still, as she did now, staring at the gun in Wolff’s hand and at the still figure on the floor. A thin feather of blue smoke curled slowly upward from the gold-tipped cigarette in her right hand.

Wolff scowled at Dunning over his desk and splashed some whisky into a highball glass.

“He’s a detective who had an odd idea that he could blackmail Dudley Wolff. He’s not so smart in other ways too. I hit him and took what he wanted to sell. You’d better go. He might be a bit nasty when he wakes up. Dunning and I will handle him.”

Anne frowned at the man on the floor. “Doctor Haggard is downstairs, isn’t he? Perhaps I had better call him.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I don’t want everyone to know—”

Dunning, who had gone to kneel at the man’s side, said nervously, “I think we should have the doctor. I don’t like — I can’t feel his pulse and he doesn’t seem to be breathing.”

Wolff scowled at Dunning over his glass. “Nonsense!” he said. But he put his drink down and crossed to join the secretary. He looked down at the body for a moment. “He doesn’t look too good, does he? All right, get Haggard.”

Dunning hurried into the gun room, ran his finger down a row of buttons beneath the phone and pressed one marked Library.

Anne Wolff said, “I think I’ll stay. I don’t like this.”

Wolff frowned down at the figure at his feet for a moment and then returned to his drink.

Dunning came back after a moment, and then Doctor Haggard hurried in. He stopped just inside the door, blinked once in a startled way at the body, threw a ¢questioning look at Wolff, and scowled briefly at the gun in Wolff’s hand. But he asked no questions. He moved across to the man on the floor and knelt above him.

Wolff, less confident now, poured himself another drink. They all watched the doctor without speaking.

Haggard’s fingers went to his patient’s wrist. The calmly interested professional look on his face suddenly froze. He hesitated a second, scowling. Then, quickly, he turned the body over on its back, threw open the overcoat, ripped away the man’s tie, and unbuttoned vest and shirt. He leaned forward and put his ear against the bare flesh over the heart.

Wolff, distinctly nervous now, watched him intently. Mrs. Wolff seemed to be holding her breath. Dunning was transfixed.

Then, after a long moment, Doctor Haggard straightened up, sat back on his heels, and looked again at Wolff and at the gun in Wolff’s hand. His voice was crisp. “What happened? I don’t see any wound, and no blood. I heard no shot. How long—”

“There wasn’t any shot,” Wolff said quickly. “I hit him. What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to do something? Why—”

“Do something?” Haggard lifted one eyebrow. “I’m a bit late. This man is dead.”

The doctor’s voice was, except for a trace of curiosity, as matter-of-fact as a weather report.

But the words gathered impact in the silence that followed them. Wolff shook his head in a dazed fashion. He opened his lips twice before his words came. Then, hoarsely, he said, “Dead? No. I don’t believe it! He can’t be—”

Haggard frowned. “He is though.” His eyes went again to the gun in Wolff’s hand. “What happened?”

Dudley let the weapon fall onto the green desk blotter. He sank back into the chair. “I hit him,” he said. “But not that hard. He might have cracked his head when he went over backward, but — but — dammit, look at him again. You must be wrong. It isn’t possible—”

Haggard bent above the body again. “There’s some abrasion along the side of the jaw. But that’s all. His head seems to be all right. But he’s still dead.” Haggard stood up. “Bad heart probably. The autopsy will show. Who was he?”

Wolff stared at Haggard for a moment, then took a hasty drink from his glass. His hand shook. He looked at the body on the floor and his voice was like that of a sleepwalker. “Man named Garner. He tried to blackmail me.”

Haggard blinked again, glanced curiously at Anne and Dunning, and said, “Oh. That’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

Wolff nodded vaguely, still staring at the body, not believing it. His face was white and his forehead shone damply in the light that came from the green-shaded desk lamp. He sat limply in the chair, all his dynamic energy gone like the air from a pricked balloon.

Haggard picked up the phone, saw the cut wire, blinked once more, and looked around at everyone again. Then he replaced the receiver slowly and, turning, started out the door.

Wolff wasn’t paying attention, but Anne asked, “Doctor Haggard, where are you going?”

“Telephone,” he answered. “Notify the police. Cases of sudden or violent death must be—”

Dudley Wolff heard that. He came up out of his chair abruptly. “Wait a minute, Haggard!” Something of the old punch was back in his voice now.

The doctor turned. “Yes?”

“You’re not going to call the police,” Wolff said heavily.

“No?” Haggard’s eyebrows lifted. “I haven’t any choice in the matter. You can’t possibly avoid—”

“I’m going to though,” Wolff insisted. “Somehow. I’ve got to. I can’t have this hit the papers now. That man was an FBI agent.”

The surprises came so fast Haggard seemed a bit dazed. “But if he was blackmailing you — that’s excuse enough for hitting him.”

“But I can’t admit that. It would only make things worse. The papers would love it. And the Senate Committee—” Wolff’s rugged face had a cornered look, but there was hard determination in the set of his jaw.

Anne, still cool, said, “Perhaps if the body was found somewhere else—”

Haggard protested. “If he was a Federal agent his presence here is probably known. That wouldn’t help a bit. The police would—”

“I’m not so sure,” Wolff interrupted. “The blackmail was obviously a little side line of his own. It’s not at all likely that anyone, least of all his superiors, knows where he went tonight. And—” He hesitated a moment, then looked at the doctor squarely. “And if the body shouldn’t be found at all—”

Haggard shook his head uneasily. “That’s impossible. You can’t—”

His voice trailed off as he saw Wolff turn toward one of the casement windows in the wall opposite the door and unlatch it. The millionaire pulled one side of it in and looked out into the blackness above the waters of the Sound which, on this side, touched the foundations of the house two stories below. Small icy flakes of snow eddied downward out of the dark, caught the light from the window for a brief second, and then vanished.

“It wouldn’t work, Wolff,” Haggard said. “The body would be washed up, and there wouldn’t be any water in the lungs. The conclusion would be only too obvious. Besides, I can’t allow it. I—”

Wolff turned, scowling. “You’ll have to. I have no choice. I don’t know just what I’m going to do yet, but I’m going to do something.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Haggard snapped. “Pull out of it! There are some things that even you can’t get away with. I’m phoning.” He moved toward the door again.

“Dunning!” Wolff ordered. “Stop him!”

Dunning usually carried out Wolff’s orders with instant obedience. For the second time tonight he hesitated. But Haggard was stopped by Anne. She had moved into the doorway, and she stood there facing the doctor defiantly.

“Not just yet, Doctor,” she said.

And Wolff, behind him, cut in, “Listen to me a minute.”

Haggard, not quite certain how to get around Mrs. Wolff, turned part way.

Wolff’s voice came rapidly. “It isn’t as if this were murder. It’s not. I didn’t intend to kill him. You know that. He was a blackmailer. And I’m not going to take it on the chin just because a rat like that happened to have a bad heart. No jury would indict me. But the newspapers won’t wait to find that out. They’ll make it look as bad as they can, and, when the Senate Committee hears about it, I’ll in one hell of a spot.”

Wolff saw that this argument was not having the desired effect. He stopped abruptly and tried another. “Haggard, you’ve been working nearly ten years on that problem of yours. You’re right on the edge of something big. How long would it take you to reach the same point if you had to begin over again from scratch? Even if you found someone to give you a new lab and back a long series of experiments with no commercial value, what about that new strain of rats? How long would it take you to breed them again? What about those somatic-cell cultures you’ve been nursing so carefully for the last four years? It would be too bad if—”

This hit home. There was blank consternation in the doctor’s face and he gasped as though Wolff’s words were hammerlike physical blows.

“You — you wouldn’t—”

“I own that lab and everything in it. I can do what I like with it. And I will — if necessary.”

The scientifically designed thermostat that regulated Haggard’s emotions came very close to breaking down. The man took a sudden step forward.

Wolff saw the look in his eyes and snapped, “Dunning!”

Haggard stopped. “All right, damn you,” he said. “You win. But some day—” His eyes held Wolff’s for a moment, then dropped to the body on the floor. “But what do you think you can do about that? There’s no way—”

“We’re going to find one,” Wolff answered. “You’re a doctor. You should be able to suggest—”

The answer came from Anne Wolff. Quietly she said, “Dudley. The Pines.”

Wolff turned and looked at her. He was silent for a moment. Then very slowly he said, “Yes. Of course. It’ll have to be that. No one would ever know.”

“The Pines?” Haggard asked. “What—”

“Graveyard,” Wolff said. “Old one. Here on the estate. It’s in a pine grove quarter of a mile east of the house and back from the shore. No one ever goes there. I don’t suppose many people even know about it now. If the body were put there it would never be found.”

The silence for a moment after Wolff stopped speaking was intense.

Finally Haggard said, “You’re determined?”

Wolff nodded. “Yes.”

The doctor looked at Dunning a bit skeptically. “What about him?”

Wolff didn’t look at him at all. “Dunning,” he said flatly, “will do as I say.”

Haggard glanced at Anne. She still stood in the doorway. Then he made his decision. “I don’t seem to have much choice either. We’d better get it over with then.”

Dudley Wolff was the captain of industry again, ruthless and efficient. “Anne. Go down and talk to Galt. Keep him out of the way. Dunning, get a pick and some spades. Make sure none of the servants see you. Meet us outside. The door off the rear hallway. We’ll use the back stairs.”

Wolff, Haggard, and Dunning worked hard for the next two hours. It was no easy job carrying the body the distance it had to go. But they did it.

There were half a dozen graves there in the small clearing beneath the dark pines. The men worked steadily, somewhat frantically, by the shielded light of an electric torch. Doctor Haggard carefully cut away the sod above one grave, slicing it as neatly as though he were working with a dissecting scalpel. Dunning, rather more white-faced than usual, lifted it and stacked it on one side.

None of the men was used to the heavy physical labor that came next. Luckily the frozen ground was sandy and not as hard as it might have been.

When they had reached a depth of four feet, Haggard said, “That’s enough.” His voice was a tight tense whisper. “We’ll turn up something we don’t want to if we go much farther.”

Dunning, whose hands trembled, helped the doctor lower the blanket-wrapped body into the hole. The perspiration on Wolff’s forehead as he watched them did not all come from the physical exertion of his digging. His hands gripped his spade in a desperate effort to keep control over the fear inside him. Haggard, noticing it, took the spade from his hands.

He and Dunning finished the job hurriedly. There was a good-sized heap of earth left over when they were done.

“Dunning can come over tomorrow and clear that away,” Wolff said. “Let’s get out of here.”

He helped them replace the sod and scuffle a covering of pine needles over it again. Dunning quickly gathered up the spades and the pick.

Then they moved off hastily, eager to get back to the warmth and light of the house. Their light bobbed jerkily as they made their way over the uneven ground and blinked like a ghostly will-o’-the-wisp as it passed between the trees.

And in the cold black of the thick woods behind them, a man squatted silently on the ground watching the light recede. He had been there a long time without moving and he was cold. But his lips smiled.

After kissing the boys at the police station good-by, I took the Parkway back into town at a more cautious rate of speed and without further mishap. From my apartment on East 40th Street I phoned the Wolff house. I suspected that Dudley might have issued orders to Phillips concerning calls from me so I boosted my voice up a couple of octaves and said, “Is this Mamaroneck 3824?”

Phillips admitted it.

“Hollywood calling,” I said then. “I have a call for Miss Kathryn Wolff.” Then I held my hand over my mouth to muffle my voice and create an effect of distance. “Hello. Hello. Orson Welles’s office. Is this Miss Wolff?”

That, I felt sure, would get her if anything would. But I was no Julian Eltinge. My female impersonations apparently needed another week of rehearsal and a tryout in Philadelphia before braving the Phillips criticism. He sounded like George Jean Nathan.

“Miss Wolff is engaged at the moment,” he said coldly, and then skeptically, “If Mr. Welles will call again in the morning—”

I gave in. “Okay, Phillips. It’s me she’s engaged to. Be a good skate and put me through. This is Ross Harte.”

Phillips was a skate all right — one of those flat fishy ones with a sting in its tail. “I thought so,” he said. “I’m sorry. That is impossible. My instructions—”

I hung up. Phillips sounded about as sorry as a man whose rich uncle has just contracted bubonic plague — and about as helpful. I thought it over gloomily and decided that perhaps, after all, it was just as well. Kay’s emotional upset, and mine too for that matter, would have a chance to settle overnight. We could discuss things the next day far more rationally and with greater hope of agreement than now.

I called again the next morning, and, this time, used a smoke screen that put less strain on my histrionic abilities.

“Police headquarters,” I announced gruffly. “Inspector Gavigan speaking. The 1941 maroon Buick Miss Kathryn Wolff reported stolen two weeks ago has been found. May I speak with her, please?”

This approach should certainly confound Phillips. The facts were all true enough; her car had been stolen. But I had taken the Inspector’s name in vain.

“Miss Wolff,” Phillips said, “is out of town.”

I blinked. I was sure he hadn’t caught on that quickly. On the other hand, I didn’t see why he would want to mislead the police department. I couldn’t very well stay in character, however, and express my doubts.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “Where can I reach her? It’s very important.”

My luck hadn’t improved any overnight. The Phillips voice was glacial. “I have no authority to give out that information. Besides, the police found and returned Miss Wolff’s car three days ago. Good day, Mr. Harte.”

The click of the phone as he broke the connection sounded as final as the trump of doom. But I was certain now that he was giving me the run-around. Having guessed who I was, he had reason for wanting me to think that Kay was out of reach. I put through a call to Peggy Shields whose daily column in the Press annotates the comings and goings of the uppercrust.

She promised to look into the matter. Fifteen minutes later she called back. There was disillusion in her voice.

“I thought I had a way with butlers,” she complained, “but the rock-ribbed specimen who answers the Wolff phone doesn’t third-degree very well. He insists that Mr. and Mrs. Wolff and daughter, Kathryn, are out of town but he won’t go into details. He refuses politely but firmly to say where they’ve gone, when they went, why they went, or when they’ll be back. It looks odd. I guess I’ll have to give up my Sunday morning nap and run out there for a personal appearance.”

“Look, sweetheart,” I warned. “Phillips can’t be had. Even if you took Hedy Lamarr, Gypsy Rose Lee, and Carmen Miranda, he’d still make noises like a clam. I know him.”

“But,” she said, “don’t clams have sex?”

“It’s possible, but I’m not so sure about Phillips. Work your wiles on someone else, but get going. Those senators are snapping at Wolff’s heels. He might be taking it on the lam.”

“Oh,” she said. “That would be interesting. I’ll let you know.”

Actually I didn’t think that running out was Dudley Wolff’s style. But I knew that baiting the hook with possible headlines would keep Peggy on her toes. I made a few calls myself, mostly to friends of the Wolffs’. I couldn’t turn up anything on them that dated later than press time the day before. No one seemed to be aware that they had had any intention of leaving town. A few persons who had engagements with one or the other of them within the next few days went so far as to think it all highly unlikely. I was beginning to feel sure that Phillips was perjuring himself in the line of duty when Peggy called back with the answer.

“They’ve gone all right,” she reported. “I checked the air lines. Ten-thirty plane for Miami. Unless they’re headed for South America I expect to find them registered at the Lido Club Hotel where they always stay. But it doesn’t look very suspicious from here. And, if it was, it wouldn’t make headlines in this man’s paper. A little bird at the office just told me that we have a new publisher. Somebody named Dudley T. Wolff, of all things. Is that why you’re interested in Kay?”

“No. It’s the other way around. And you’re only half right. You’re working for him, but I quit last night when he fired me. Thanks for the answers. I’ll stop in some day and treat you to lunch. And, by the way, don’t talk back to your new boss unless you just don’t care what happens. He isn’t used to it.”

I hung up quickly before the conversation could develop into an interview, called Western Union, and sent Kay a wire addressed to the Lido Club Hotel. I wrote a letter too and sent it out air-mail special. I stayed at home all evening waiting for an answer to the wire. None came. At eleven I put through a long-distance call. I got Dunning.

My subtle Machiavellian attempts at deception had all panned out so badly that, this time, I tried a simple direct approach. I told him frankly who was calling and asked politely to speak to Kay. I think he was a bit surprised at having been traced so quickly, but the shock was in no way fatal.

“Miss Wolff isn’t in,” he said promptly. “May I take a message?”

I trusted him about half as much as I did Phillips. “Yes, you might tell her I called.” I hung up, adding to myself, “But I doubt it.”

I tried a night letter then, and asked Western Union to sit tight and try to get an answer. I shouldn’t have bothered. A wire came through less than an hour later. Time magazine never ran anything as curt, clear, complete, or half as upsetting. It read:

If you know of any better excuse for getting tight, I don’t want to hear it. I spent a couple of hours in a bar on Lexington Avenue and managed to forget my troubles temporarily. But they were all back again the next morning, along with some new ones. Item one was the headache I had when I awoke. Item two was the fact that, having failed to set my alarm, I didn’t wake until nearly eleven. The time specified on that court summons was 9:00 a.m.

It was, consequently, noon when I arrived again in Mamaroneck. The judge, a strict disciplinarian, was in no mood to listen to excuses even if I had had any. I pled guilty and let nature takes its course. It added up to twenty-five bucks on each count, plus a few unminced words and some caustic advice from His Honor.

Sergeant Lovejoy, seeing the glum look on my face as I went out, said, “Great Scott, young man, what happened? You look as if he gave you the chair!”

“Well,” I said smiling half-heartedly, “he didn’t exactly kiss me on both cheeks. I’ve got other worries. See you again some time.”

He grinned. “I hope not.”

I could put something in here about coming events casting their shadows, but, not wanting to be tagged as a had-I-but-known writer, I’ll leave it lay, saying merely that the sergeant’s wish did not come true. I saw him again all too soon and under circumstances that gave me even greater reason for looking down at the mouth.

His remarks did serve to call my attention to the fact that I was going to have to do something about my state of mind before I started out to hunt a new job. As I drove back to town I tried hard to push Kay and thoughts of her down into my subconscious and file them under Postponed Business. But the going was tough. I think I managed to erase the expression the sergeant had commented on. I may even have deceived a few of the editors I approached into thinking that I was bright and cheerful. But I didn’t fool myself.

I tried arguing, telling myself that, if Kay could call it all off as easily as she had and for as little reason, perhaps it was just as well. Logically that was sensible enough. I told myself that, too. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Then, on Saturday, I made a withdrawal at the bank that was all-inclusive in its scope, and did what I had known I would do all along. I packed a bag and took the next train out.

I had twenty-tour hours en route in which to think. And I argued myself, more successfully this time, into believing that perhaps Dudley Wolff, being the sort of totalitarian dictator that he was, might be censoring his daughter’s mail before she saw it, and confiscating all notes from foreign powers. And I had, furthermore, no good evidence that the telegram I’d received had really been sent by Kay herself. Dunning could have held back the fact of my long-distance call and, under orders from his employer, been responsible for the wire. The more I considered the theory, the better I liked it. I felt better too. Not a lot, but some.

The first mistake in my military campaign was a disastrous one. I neglected to scout the ground in advance, breezed into the Lido Club Hotel quite openly, and found Dudley Wolff there in the lobby as big as life and twice as snappish, a welcoming committee of one. He saw me before I could take cover. His greeting was nor exactly the ticker-tape, key-to-the-city kind.

He scowled like a hungry shark and came toward me with the same sort of headlong dive. I couldn’t do anything but stand pat and take it, though I did manage to get in the opening shot.

“You don’t look well,” I said. “What is it? Gout?”

His scowl grew still blacker.

I knew the value of appeasement policies and decided to stick to shock tactics. “Careful!” I warned. “Rigor mortis might set in. Or has it? That scowl of yours always seems to be the same.”

“Young man!” he growled. “If you’re here because you think—”

“My presence,” I cut in, “is your own fault. If you hadn’t fired me, I’d have had to stay in New York on the job.”

That thrust penetrated his hide, but it was far from being fatal. It only made him roar louder.

“You’re wasting your time! You can take the next train back because you are not going to see—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve bought a controlling interest in Florida too?” I was enjoying myself now, and feeling more certain than ever that it was not Kay who had sent that wire. If those sentiments were hers, Dudley would hardly need to protest so strenuously.

“Besides,” I added, “I just came down for a swim and some fishing. But I didn’t expect to catch a crab so soon, and in the Lido lobby! Boy!” I beckoned a bellhop and jerked a thumb at Old Faithful. “Send this down to a taxidermist. Get it stuffed and mounted. With its mouth open — like this.”

I demonstrated, then turned and walked out before Wolff could put in a call for a house dick and have me thrown out. Getting through to Kathryn after this was going to take some doing. Wolff would have all the barricades manned. My direct frontal attack had been intercepted too soon, its surprise element lost. I would have to lay out a new and much better planned campaign.

I returned to my own hotel, a smaller one where the uniformed help didn’t wear so much gold braid and the rates were not computed in astronomical units, picked up my bathing trunks, and headed oceanward. I swam out to the farthest float, climbed aboard, and stretched out in the sun to do some concentrated, and highly involved thinking.

Wolff, being the tyrant that he was and disliking me as heartily as he seemed to, was quite capable of keeping his daughter in her room — locked in, if necessary — until I should give up and wheel away my siege guns. I could almost imagine him shipping her off to the nearest nunnery if there should be a nice impregnable one handy. It was going to be difficult.

Of course, if this were light fiction or a Grade B movie, I’d simply disguise myself as Room Service and go in carrying her breakfast tray. But, in real life, that somehow didn’t seem so simple. And, in the Lido, the necessary fix money might very well run to more than I could afford. False whiskers were not in my line either. And, if Dunning was half as experienced as Phillips, which was likely, any act I might put on by phone would be expertly nipped in the bud. Besides, it was still just possible that Kay had sent that wire after all. I much preferred to see her in person.

I surveyed the problem from a dozen angles without being able to crack it to my satisfaction. Finally, I went back to my hotel for dinner still trying to evolve some sort of definite plan. Then, thinking that perhaps the bribe a bellhop would demand for a little fifth-column activity might be within my means, I returned to the Lido Club. I approached more warily this time, watching to see if Wolff had thrown out any advance patrols. None being evident, I picked a likely-looking boy, crossed his palm with some folding money, and showed him my press card.

“I want you to find out if Miss Kathryn Wolff is in. And, if not, see if you can find out where she might have gone.”

He looked at the bill I had given him with interest, but not much enthusiasm. “Why don’t you ask the desk clerk?” he said.

“Because I suspect he’s been told not to give out information to anyone answering my description. But my city editor won’t take that for an answer.” I gave him another bill. “Is that enough?”

He estimated my probable Dun & Bradstreet rating with one shrewd look and decided correctly that, enough or not, it was all he was going to get. “It’ll do,” he said. “Wait here.”

He gave full measure for moneys received, even though the answers weren’t at all what I wanted. His first one was a distinct shock.

“There’s no Miss Kathryn Wolff registered,” he said.

I didn’t believe it. This, I thought, is another sample of Dudley’s genius for organization.

“I see,” I said. “No Kathryn Wolff. What about a Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Wolff? And a man named Dunning? Don’t tell me the desk clerk never heard of them. I know better.”

“They’re not registered either,” he said calmly. “They were, up until about an hour ago. But they checked out. Funny too. Their suite was reserved for another two weeks.” He gave me a suspicious look.

I gave him one in return that Dudley Wolff couldn’t have bettered, said, “Damn!” and then turned and legged it for the nearest phone, muttering other expletives not nearly as printable. I was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that I had been outsmarted in a big way. I realized suddenly that, except for that telegram whose antecedents were doubtful, I had never had any good evidence that Kay had ever left New York at all. It was quite possible that Wolff, discovering I thought she was with them, had done what he could to further the impression. It would suit him only too well if I spent my time chasing after her a thousand miles in the wrong direction.

I called the airport. “Miami News,” I said. “What planes checked out in the last hour?”

“The Chicago plane left at nine.”

“Were there any seats reserved in the name of Dudley T. Wolff?”

The clerk hesitated. “Did you say this was the News?”

I put a city editor’s growl in my voice. “I did. Hurry it, will you?”

“Well,” he said doubtfully. “Just a moment.”

I waited, dithering. Finally his voice came back. “No, not for Chicago, but he has seats on the New York plane. It’s just leaving now.”

I heard it in the phone behind his voice — the low, distant roar of a plane taking off.

“Through tickets?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“When’s the next one leave?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, knowing that the fare was going to give my financial rating a disastrous body blow, “I’ll be out. Save me a seat.”

This game of transcontinental hop-skip-and-jump was proving too much for me. I decided that the next time I fell in love it would be with an orphan.

I returned to the hotel, checked out, and took a taxi to the 36th-Street Airport. I am apparently allergic to sleep in both Pullman and plane berths. As a matter of fact, for the past week my sleep had not been of the best quality in my own bed. Consequently, when I landed in New York the next morning, the picture I presented of a man who has just had a relaxing restful swim in sunny Florida waters would have been a distinct shock to the Miami Chamber of Commerce.

I phoned Peg again and asked her to find out if the Wolffs were back in Mamaroneck, whether or not they intended to leave for Cape Horn, and where Kathryn had been all this time.

“Phillips,” she reported back a few minutes later, “grudgingly admits that his employer is once more in residence, but insists that Miss Wolff is still out of town and refuses to divulge any further details on that point. He also states that no South American trip is scheduled. I don’t think Cape Horn sounds reasonable myself.”

“That’s just why I suspect Dudley Wolff might go there,” I growled. “Keep one eye on them for me, will you? And if you see any sign of his daughter I want to know. I’ll be here. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Sleep? At nine in the morning? And what were you up to all night, or am I being personal?”

“Chasing wild geese and counting sheep, believe it or not.”

“What’s that? A special assignment for Country Gentleman?”

“Something like that. I edit the joke page. You’ll get a rejection slip in the mail. ’By.”

I went to bed and dreamed that Dudley Wolff had left with Kay on the 8:15 rocket to the moon. I stowed away on the next flight out — the nonstop Lunar Flyer. But my additional and unsuspected weight upset the navigator’s calculations. The ship promptly curved back and headed for a watery grave in mid-Atlantic. I heard the warning bells that signaled a crash landing. Then, waking, I shut off my alarm clock, took an aspirin, showered, dressed, and went out for lunch, unhappily.

Afterward, I walked cross town toward Times Square. I had some vague idea that perhaps I might be able to circumvent the censors at the Wolff house and get a letter forwarded to Kathryn, wherever she was, by using code or maybe invisible ink. Since The Great Merlini’s Magic Shop was the local headquarters for that sort of thing, I went there. A course of “Ten Easy Lessons in Clairvoyance and Applied Crystal Gazing” might be a good buy, too.

But I purchased none of those things. I even forgot to ask for them. I should have stayed in bed and continued with the dream. A few minutes later I found myself watching a man being buried alive.

If some archeologist of the year 3000 ever digs up an Early Twentieth Century Manhattan classified telephone directory, and if one of his historian colleagues, carefully investigating its brittle pages, notices a listing that is there under M—Magical Apparatus, Magicians—I suspect that his published comments on the civilization of the Streamlined Age will contain certain belittling remarks.

If, on the other hand, a medieval sorcerer, Raymond Lully perhaps, or Nicholas Flamel, could return from the grave and walk into the shops of any of the nine concerns listed, he would sell his soul a dozen times over for many of the mysteries in stock. Even Cagliostro would be as excited as a small boy in a toy store at Christmas time. And the Spanish Inquisition, after one hasty horrified glance at the catalogues, would promptly consign them, the shops, and their proprietors to the flames.

The most famous of these stores among conjurers is Merlini’s The Magic Shop, located in an otherwise sedate office building just off Broadway. Although it is not the dusty, gloomy little shop of black candles, incense, and stuffed alligators attended by an elderly gnome in a tall pointed hat that its sales slogan, Nothing Is Impossible, might lead you to expect, it does nevertheless have a distinct air of sulphur and brimstone about it. The miracles for sale that are spread out in its neat, shining glass showcases, although intended for entertainment purposes only, are witchcraft just the same — psychological sorcery in modern dress.

The right-hand wall as you enter is covered with curiously lettered playbills describing the performances of Pinetti, Bosco, Anderson, Blitz, Alexander, Frikell, Döbler, Robert-Houdin, and the other early celebrities of conjuring. With them are the more modern, mostly autographed photographs of such men as the Herrmanns, Kellar, Maskelyne, Devant, Houdini, Thurston, Leipzig, Cardini, Tenokai.

On the opposite wall, shelves mount ceilingward bearing a bewildering assortment of conjuring paraphernalia, an odd and infinitely varied collection of commonplace objects which, in a magician’s hands, attain the peculiar property of violating all the more immutable laws of physics. There are bird cages that vanish at the count of three, rose bushes that blossom on command, inexhaustible bottles that pour forth any drink called for. There are bright-colored silk handkerchiefs, giant playing cards, billiard balls, red-and-gold Chinese boxes, eggs, alarm clocks, crystal-gazing globes, slates, swords, fish bowls, red-haired ventriloquial dummies, and, of course, a rabbit.

Peter, purely a floor sample and not for sale, is no ordinary bunny. He is a veteran trouper, an honorary member of the Lambs’ and Players’ Clubs, so much the actor that I suspect he too hopes some day to tread the boards as Hamlet. In his time he has made many a sudden and dramatic entrance before the footlights, usually from a top hat. But now, somewhat heavier about the middle and not so easily concealed, he has been retired to a Mohammedan paradise of ease and lettuce nibbling. As I entered, he peered at me from behind a talking skull marked: This Week Only—$7.50, and his pink excited nose wigwagged a friendly greeting.

Burt Fawkes, ex-contortionist, once billed on sideshow banners as Twisto, the Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out, and now Merlini’s shop assistant, leaned across the counter. He was talking to John Scarne, Luis Zingone, and Paul Rosini, a trio of exceedingly nimble-fingered gentlemen who earn their living making decks of cards sit up, roll over, and jump through impossible hoops.

“He was a little guy with an underslung chin and big spectacles,” Burt was saying. “He didn’t say much until he saw Merlini demonstrate our new rapping hand. Then his eyes pop, and before long I’m wrapping up the hand, a spirit bell, a floating light bulb, a medium-size wonder cabinet, the blueprints for walking through a brick wall, and a copy of Miracle Mind-Reading Secrets. He hurries off like he’s got a paying date that night and wants to work all those stunts into his routine before curtain time.

“But the next morning, when I open up, he’s waiting outside the door, and muttering. He eyes me the same way he would if I’d sold him a shipment of gold bricks. He has all the apparatus with him and he dumps it out on the counter nearly breaking the glass. ‘I want my money back,’ he demands flatly. ‘Every cent of it!’

“I didn’t get it. Our improved rapping hand is the best on the market, the spirit bell has a money-back guarantee, and the wonder cabinet holds a bigger load than some I’ve seen twice its size. I tell him so. But he’s stubborn and keeps insisting that none of the stuff is any good at all. He is very insistent about getting his money back. If not, he threatens to complain to the Better Business Bureau.

“‘About what?’ I ask him. ‘This merchandise does everything we claim. You saw it demonstrated yourself. The light bulb burns without visible connection and floats in midair. The brick-wall trick is the original Houdini method.’

“Then it comes out. ‘It’s all a swindle!’ he says disgustedly. ‘They’re just tricks!’

“That floored me for a minute. I edged over nearer those brass lota bowls so I could heave one at his head in case he got violent. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you want the real thing? A rapping hand with a direct spirit connection to hell, a floating light held up by mental concentration, and a recipe for walking through just any brick wall that you happen to meet. That it?’

“He nods, leans across the counter, and whispers confidentially, ‘Yes. No tricks. The real thing! It’s quite all right if you sell them to me. I’m a Third Degree Adept of the Atlantean Order of Rosicrucians. Here’s my Master’s diploma.’ And he gives me a quick look at a very fancy sample of printing and engraving from a Los Angeles correspondence school in the Higher Mysticism. It was signed, spirit writing I suppose, by Saint-Germain and a couple of Tibetan lamas.”

Burt’s audience was grinning. “Did you give him his money back?” Zingone asked.

“I did. Quick too. He’d have probably put the evil eye on me and then gone to the Better Business Bureau, the Mayor’s office, and the FBI.”

“You missed a bet mere, Burt,” I cut in. “You should have sold him a strait-jacket escape. He may be needing it.”

Burt looked around. “Oh, hello, Ross. He wouldn’t have liked that either unless the directions told him how to dematerialize into ectoplasm, ooze through the eyelets, and reassemble himself on the outside. Where have you been? The boss was trying to get you yesterday.”

“Out of town.” I glanced toward the door behind the counter that led to the sanctum sanctorum, if that term is applicable to a workshop where such diabolic contrivances as those Merlini designs are put together. “Is he in?”

“No.” Burt left his audience and moved down the counter toward me. The magicians resumed their discussion of the merits of the Erdnase one-hand shift, which is not the article of wearing apparel you might imagine, but a gambler’s sleight with cards. “He’s over at the Drury Lane. He wants you to stop in. Some script changes, I think, in those sketches you wrote for the show.”

“Rehearsals under way?”

“They were this morning.” Burt frowned. “But I don’t know how long they’ll last. Merlini is shy an angel.”

“Oh, oh. That sounds serious.”

“It is, and somebody has got to be cast for the part quick before we lose our shirts.”

I started for the door. “Don’t look at me,” I said. “At the moment, I couldn’t finance a one-ring flea circus. See you later.”

I headed for the Drury Lane. The Great Merlini, it appeared, in spite of being a magician, was up to his neck in trouble too.

His farewell tour in ’29 was proving to be about as final as any actor’s. This was to be expected in a man who was born on a circus train en route and into a family whose name had been famous in sawdust annals for five generations. Twenty-six years of entertaining audiences under canvas and in what seemed to me, when I once heard him list some of them, nearly every theater on the habitable globe, was a record that makes retirement difficult. Merlini, I had always known, would never be able to resist the call of grease paint and footlights as long as his lean and agile fingers were still nimble enough to make a half dollar vanish into thin air.

He was, at the moment, head over heels in a project he had long dreamed of, one more ambitious than any he had yet attempted — a full-dress magical-musical revue complete with chorus, singers, dancers, a cast that included half a dozen top-flight magicians, and a libretto shot through with streamlined mystification. Big-illusion magic, since the deaths of vaudeville and of Howard Thurston, is rarely seen on today’s stages. The best current conjuring is the more intimate close-up sleight of hand that a group of polished performers present in night-club floor shows and around hotel supper-club tables. It was Merlini’s idea that the larger magical feats were still good box office, provided they were presented in a novel up-to-the-minute manner and in a sophisticated setting of girls and music. He was playing this hunch with his currently projected Hocus-Pocus Revue.

I entered the Drury Lane on 45th Street by the stage door, climbed a short flight of iron steps and found myself suddenly swept on-stage by a rush of girls in ballet slippers and practice costumes. Piano music issued from the orchestra pit, and, from somewhere in the outer dark of the auditorium, Merlini’s voice rose. “Ross, this is an underwater ballet sequence. And we aren’t casting any flounders. Swim down out of it.”

I put an arm around each of the two nearest dancers. “I’m an octopus,” I said. “I’ll need six more of these, one for each arm.”

The piano music stopped. “We’ve got a comedian,” Merlini answered. “A good one.” He spoke to a man in shirt sleeves who sat on the piano top. “Let the girls go, Larry. They’ve been at it long enough. Besides, Don’s all set and he’ll have to be getting back for the next Music Hall show shortly. Bring in the tank and let’s run through that. And I want the lights — spots, foots, and the underwater circuit. Ross, you sit down here and try to act like a tired businessman. I want your reaction.”

I crossed the footlights, descended the rundown, and took a seat in the third row beside the magician whose tall, spare, and sometimes dignified frame extended for an alarming distance out into the aisle. Although he is one of those fortunate persons who can get along comfortably on much less sleep than the average mortal, I got the impression, for once, that he was tired. Why I thought that I don’t know. His black eyes still sparkled with their customary alertness, and the good-humored crinkles at the corners of his mouth bracketed his characteristic impish smile. His magician’s air of self-confidence was there too; his precisely modulated voice still captured and then smoothly misdirected the attention with all its old, expert, hypnotic power.

The delicately co-ordinated movements of his body and highly trained hands, the forcefully cut, though asymmetric, planes of his face, and his attentive interest in practically everything made him appear, as always, at least fifteen years younger than the sixty his Who’s Who biography admits.

His off-stage informality of dress, his lack of the traditional mustache and flowing hair are deceptively unmagicianlike. But, the moment he begins to work at being a conjurer, the practiced ease with which he seems to accomplish the utterly impossible imparts such an air of genuineness to his trickery that a century or two earlier he would have been taken out posthaste and burned at the stake.

“Where,” I asked as I sat down, “did you acquire an underwater ballet, of all things? It’ll give the customers an eyeful of the Grade A, fancy assorted, female anatomy you seem to have hired, but I don’t see how it fits in.”

“You will,” he grinned. “It’s a build-up for the newest Merlini Mystery. Accept no substitutes and keep your eyes peeled. If you can explain it, we’ll toss it out.”

“Always the guinea pig,” I said. “Okay, baffle me.”

As I spoke, the long, white, conical beams of twin spots streamed out above our heads from the balcony and centered in mid-stage on the great, square, glass-walled tank that half a dozen stagehands were pushing out into place. Water swirled and foamed within it, gushing from the nozzles of fire hoses that curled up over the tank’s edge and led away, twisting snakelike across the stage floor to the wings.

Then a raised platform slightly higher than the tank and extending partly over it was shoved into position. A young athletic man with a dark handsome face rose from the seat behind Merlini.

“Well, here goes,” he said, and moved forward toward the stage. He slipped off the dressing-gown he wore, dropped it across a first-row aisle seat, and then, clothed only in the briefest of scarlet swimming trunks, vaulted lightly over the footlight trough up onto the stage. His bronzed body was something that any matinee idol could have been proud of, and he used it with all the sure, graceful ease of a skilled athlete — which, among other things, was what he was.

“A little something,” I said, “for the tired businesswoman to look at too, I see.”

The performer on stage ran lightly up a flight of steps to the raised platform, turned, and bowed in our direction. He stood beside the dark sinister shape of an upended open coffin. Two stage assistants followed him, carrying a formidable collection of heavy handcuffs and leg irons. They quickly adjusted the handcuffs on his extended wrists, pulled the ratchets tight, and locked them. Then they affixed the massive shackles on his legs.

“The cuffs,” Merlini commented, “have been loaned by the police department. Gavigan owed me a favor or two, and I collected. I want you to play that up in one of the publicity releases.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes. You’ve just been appointed press agent.”

I remembered what Burt had said about a missing angel and started to make a delicate inquiry as to salary, but Merlini’s mind-reading ability was working with its usual efficiency.

“We’ll have a business conference later,” he said. “Watch this.”

The two assistants were lifting the performer’s body and placing it within the waiting coffin. The piano player increased his tempo.

The man in the coffin looked out at us, smiled, and raised his manacled arms in a gesture toward the large clock dial that hung from the flies above the tank and on which a single hand began to move, marking off the seconds.

The assistants pulled the hinged coffin lid around into place and swiftly fitted the six chromium hasps that bordered its edge down upon their staples. Heavy padlocks were snapped into place. Then one man tossed the keys that fitted cuffs, shackles, and padlocks down onto the stage floor, and turned to help his partner attach steel lifting cables into fittings at the coffin’s ends.

The men straightened. One waved an arm. A whistle blew, and the cables tightened. The coffin tilted unsteadily, then lifted, swinging out into space.

The whistle shrilled again. The rush of water that poured from the hoses died away and the six-foot depth of water within the tank shone in the spotlight greenly phosphorescent. The dark shape of the coffin hung above it, one assistant leaning precariously forward to steady it with his hands. The piano music was muted, almost inaudible.

Then, the whistle sounded again, loud in the hush. The cables dropped swiftly. The coffin struck the surface with a splash that sent a myriad flashing fountains of bright color cascading upward in the light.

Slack appeared again in the cables as the coffin floated for a moment. Then slowly, as the water seeped in, it sank down through the sparkling green depths. The outline of its hard ugly shape was blurred by the swirling water. It came to rest, finally, on the floor of the tank.

For a space, nothing moved except the hand on the clock dial which reached and passed the first minute mark, and crept closer toward that final red-lettered word: Danger.

As the hand neared the two-minute mark, one assistant hurried from the platform down to the stage and picked up a red-handled fire ax. He hefted it slowly, his eyes on the clock. The other man above gazed anxiously into the water.

“Nice touch,” I commented. “And good acting.”

“It’s not acting,” Merlini said, his eyes fastened on the stage, his voice taut. “This is the first time we’ve tried it!”

My association with Merlini and the magicians who made his shop their headquarters had dulled my wonder at the average miracle and I had, thus far, been watching calmly, sprawled out in my seat. But those words brought me upright, out on the chair’s edge.

The moving hand went on. Two minutes, two and a half. It neared the three-minute mark and the red Danger sign. Then with only twenty short seconds of safety remaining, the assistant down below moved in closer to the tank. He swung his ax up, holding it ready in both hands. The space between the moving pointer and the Danger mark diminished rapidly. A quick, accelerating tom-tom beat swelled in the music.

But still there was no movement from the submerged coffin, no hint of what might be happening in its black, water-filled interior.

Just as the last five seconds began to tick away, the man on the platform suddenly raised one arm. The whistle shrilled again. The man below lifted his ax higher, its bright edge flashing where the spotlight shimmered on the sharp steel.

And then, abruptly, a masking curtain of air bubbles ascended through the water, billowing upward from the tank’s floor around the coffin like escaping steam. The pianist reached the crescendo he had been building toward. The white glare of the spotlights changed to amber, and the green water glinted gold.

The second hand reached and passed the danger mark.

The thin piercing note of the whistle shrilled once more. And slowly, the rising geyser gush of bubbles faded and cleared. The coffin could be seen again, still submerged, still closed, and still locked.

But just above it there was a flash of red swimming suit and of a brown body rising.

Don Diavolo’s head broke the surface. Applause broke the tension in the dark around us where the ballet girls had gathered to watch.

The magician, free of cuffs, shackles, and coffin, pulled himself slowly up from the water’s surface onto the tank’s brassbound edge. He lifted one leg over and balanced there, shaking the dark wet hair back from his eyes. He breathed heavily, filling his aching lungs with air.

“And then,” Merlini said, “curtain. Like it?”

I nodded. “Yes. In fact, I think it’s good. But I know how it’s done.”

That nearly put him down for the count. His eyes popped.

“You what!” he exclaimed, staring at me as though were something with two heads that had just escaped from a bottle.

“I know how it’s done. It’s a trick.”

He grinned with relief and whispered confidentially, “Don’t tell anyone, but that’s it exactly. You’re an analytical genius. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It runs in the family,” I said. “Medical science is baffled. There’s no cure. And how are you?”

“I’m baffled too.” He leaned back in his seat and frowned up at the stage where Larry was saying, “Alright. That’s all. Everybody report at nine in the morning.”

For the first time since I had known him, Merlini’s voice, usually so charged with energy, seemed tired. “I had forgot,” he added, “how many things can go wrong with a Broadway show between script and opening night.”.

“Burt,” I said, “mentioned a little something about angel trouble.”

Merlini nodded glumly at the shiny half dollar that he balanced on his finger tips. “A lot of things in this show vanish into thin air.” The half dollar flickered and did just that as he spoke. “But I hadn’t counted on it happening to the man who writes the checks. It certainly wasn’t in the script. He tried to put over some complicated financial sleight of hand down in Wall Street, and it backfired. The reverberations, of course, echoed dismally all up and down Broadway. And the creditors are howling like so many wolves.”

I decided not to bother the man with my troubles. He had enough of his own. “And so,” I said, “you need a press agent who doesn’t have to eat until after opening night.”

“It’s not quite as bad as that. The Mrs. Merlini Home-Cooked Meals Corporation will be happy to extend you an Annie Oakley, good until opening night. I think she’ll stay in business that long.”

“You think — say, have you put your own money into this show?”

The vanished half dollar reappeared in his fingers as a quarter, then shrank at once to a dime. “I couldn’t help myself,” he admitted. “I had to throw something to the biggest and hungriest wolves.”

I took the dime from his hand quickly before it could decrease in value further. “Okay. I’m hired. I’ll take this as a retainer. I didn’t expect to sleep much for the next few days anyway. And it may keep my mind off other things.”

He gave me a sharp look. “I thought you seemed a bit subdued. Not as much bounce as usual. What’s wrong now?”

“Same trouble you’ve got. Same trouble Red Ridinghood’s maternal grandparent had. Wolves. Tell you about it later. Right now I think I’d better get busy and see if I can think of some way to entice a nice fat angel into our parlor.”

“If you can catch one,” he said gloomily, “I’ll get you an honorary membership in the Society of American Magicians, with loving cup to match. The Broadway angel crop, this late in the season, has been pretty thoroughly picked over.”

Behind us a familiar voice suddenly said, “I think perhaps I can supply one.”

I nearly did a vanishing act of my own that wasn’t in the script, a descent without benefit of trap doors straight down through the floor. I still don’t know what prevented it.

The voice was Kathryn Wolff’s.

For a week now my most strenuous efforts had all been futile. I had chased clear to Florida and back, more than two thousand miles. Fines, phone calls, train and plane fares had reduced my bank account to the status of an exploded theory. And now, just as soon as I sat down and relaxed, she appeared out of nowhere like a jinni from a bottle.

I sat there for a moment, afraid to turn and look for fear that it might be only another of Merlini’s conjuring illusions. Then, getting up, he spoke. “You think you can supply—”

His voice tumbled suddenly headlong over a precipice and fell down out of sight. A weak astonished echo floated back. “What have you done to your hair?”

I took a chance and looked, expecting anything. If what I saw was a hallucination, it was visual as well as auditory. And worth, in my estimation, the full price of admission.

Though Kay wore no hat, I could see nothing wrong with her hair. It seemed to be just as usual, framing her face with gold and dropping down to break in a bright curling foam around her neck. Her clothes — the deep-blue dress that matched the color of her eyes, the short fur jacket thrown carelessly across her shoulders, the big, fire-engine red purse — were all out of Vogue by Bonwit Teller, but worn, as she always wore them, with a careless nonchalance.

She gave me a nod and half a smile, and said, “Hello, Ross.”

I had just zoomed up to the dizzy top of an emotional roller coaster. The completely impersonal tone of her voice, as cool and distant as the dark nebula in Orion, sent me dropping again, straight down.

She answered Merlini before I could speak, “Don’t you like my hair this way?”

“I do,” he said, still sounding a bit off balance. “I think I like it even better, especially that shade of blond. But I didn’t cast you as a lightning-change artist. Will it stay that way? I can’t order new costumes and scenery to match each time you change your mind.”

It was Greek to me — the whole conversation. That, or some lost Sanskrit dialect. “What goes on here?” I asked. “What color did you think her hair was? It’s always been blond.”

“Not last week it wasn’t,” Merlini said, eyeing me with some suspicion. “It was a dark shade of brunette. Apparently you two know each other?”

I nodded. “We did. But something slipped. Look, Kay, were you here in town rehearsing with Merlini all week?”

Merlini answered, “She’s on the pay roll, such as it is. She gets sawed in half in the first act, burned alive in the second, and is magically patched up again in time to go to town on the ‘Sleight of Heart’ song. And, as press agent, I want you to see that Miss Lamb gets—”

“Miss who?” I blurted.

“Lamb.” Merlini scowled at me. “L-a-m-b. Who did you think she was?”

“I know who she is. She’s a Wolff in—”

“In sheep’s clothing,” Kay cut in, addressing Merlini and still pretending that I wasn’t there. “I was wearing a wig on account of the detectives.”

“Oh, I see,” Merlini said, blinking a bit and not seeing any more than I did. “Detectives. You’re a fugitive from something?”

“From home. Dad and I disagreed, and I decided not to darken his door again, at least not until he calmed down. Last time that happened he ordered squads of private detectives. I was afraid they’d be watching all the theaters and booking agencies.”

Slowly, as if to see how it sounded, Merlini said, “Wolff. Kathryn Wolff.” Then he looked curiously at me. “If that’s who she is, why is it that you haven’t been around before now, Ross?”

Merlini knew I had been dating Kathryn Wolff with more regularity than I displayed toward the average blonde, but he hadn’t met her, at least not under that name.

“I’ve been vacationing,” I said. “A seven-day cruise around Robin Hood’s barn. Kay, there are one or two things I want to—”

But she wasn’t having any. “Merlini,” she cut in quickly, “don’t you want to hear about the angel I found?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.” He looked a bit baffled by my cryptic remarks and Kay’s attitude. “Sit down.” He waved his hand at the thousand or so empty seats that surrounded us, offering her all of them.

I was baffled too. I knew now that if she had been here in New York all week, she hadn’t been responsible for that telegram. And yet she was acting just as if she felt the way the wire had sounded. I didn’t get it at all. It didn’t even look as if I was going to get a chance to discuss it.

Merlini balanced himself on the back edge of row two, put his feet on the seat in row three, facing Kathryn. “Wolff,” he said again somewhat suspiciously. “That isn’t the angel’s name too, by any chance?”

Kay nodded. “Yes. It’s Dad. He’s in a jam. You’re the only person I know who can help, and if you do—”

Merlini seemed incredulous. “Wait,” he interrupted. “Did he actually tell you that he’d put money of his in a show of mine?”

“Well, no. He didn’t. But—’’

“I was afraid of that,” Merlini said disappointedly, seeing the promised financial backing fade. Dudley T. Wolff explodes violently like a shipment of his own blasting powder every time he hears my name mentioned. I’ve seen people run for cover thinking it was a thunderstorm. And yet you—”

Merlini halted. He didn’t seem, somehow, to be operating with his usual efficiency. “Jam?” he asked then, backtracking a bit. “What kind of a jam?”

Kay hesitated, lit a cigarette, took a nervous puff or two, and then forgot she had it. The gay, lighthearted smile which was so much her own that she could have patented it wasn’t there any longer.

“It’s — It’s—” She stopped as if facing a cold shower. Then suddenly, holding her breath, she plunged in. “Well, it’s a ghost.”

If the silence that followed that had been set aside to cool, it would have jelled.

“Ghost,” Merlini repeated uncertainly. “Lamb. Wolves. Angels. Detectives. Jam. And now ghost. You know I’m not quite sure I follow this, but go on.”

“I know how it sounds,” Kay said. “But I’m quite serious. Father and Francis Galt have at last got what they’ve always wanted — and it’s too much for them.” Kathryn spoke rapidly now, almost breathlessly. “Merlini, you’ve got to help. You’re chairman of the American Scientist’s psychic-investigating committee. You say you can duplicate any occult phenomena by ordinary magician’s means. The only other person who knows nearly as much about such things is Francis Galt, and he—”

She stopped uncertainly, frowning.

“Has approved the ghost?” Merlini asked.

“No,” she said slowly. “Not yet. He’s still investigating. But I’m afraid he will. Dad’s got his wind up badly, and if Galt—” Once again her voice trailed off. Her hands played nervously with her purse.

“That doesn’t sound like Dudley Wolff,” Merlini commented.

“I know. That’s why I’m so sure that there’s something deep down behind it all that I don’t understand. Something that Dad knows and fears, and won’t admit. Something I don’t understand at all. I think it’s that mainly that has him scared — that and what he’s afraid is going to happen.”

“What is going to happen?” Merlini repeated. “Do you know?”

“No. But I think Father does, and he’s afraid — deathly afraid. I’ve never seen him like this before. I — we’ve got to do something quickly.” Her voice was strained now, and tense. She threw me a brief glance. “Dad can be a holy terror sometimes. But — Mother died when I was born. I have no one else, and — well I can’t simply stand by and see him go to pieces as he’s doing. He’s always been so completely confident, so sure of himself. And he still tries — but it’s not the same. He’s jumpy. His nerves are shot. I’ve asked him to see Doctor Haggard. He refuses. He’s tried so hard to prove that things like this are possible, and now, when he seems to have done it, it’s apparently more than he bargained for.”

Merlini regarded her thoughtfully. “What does Mrs. Wolff think? Does she agree that he has done it?”

Kay didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, “You know who she was when Dad married her?”

Merlini nodded. “That’s why I asked.”

“Then she would agree, I suppose, wouldn’t she?”

“She might. But don’t you know? What has she said?”

Kay frowned. “Anne and I aren’t exactly bosom pals. She—”

“Pardon me, Kay,” I said, “but I’m way behind. Who was she before she married your father?”

“She was a medium,” Merlini answered. “She made a bit of a stir in psychic circles back in ’35. Her particular phenomena were the production of cold breezes of apparent astral origin and spirit lights. A favorable report concerning her appeared over Galt’s name in the Journal of Psychic Research which he edits and which Wolff backs. A year or so later Dudley Wolff married her.” Merlini looked at Kay. “Galt told me once that some months later the phenomena grew weaker and finally ceased altogether as sometimes happens. Is that right?”

“Yes. She hasn’t done anything of the sort in a long time.”

“But you think she might have something to do with what is happening now?”

“I don’t know what to think. You see, she’s as scared as Dad is. When we saw the ghost this morning she fainted.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it too?”

Kathryn looked up at the deserted stage and at the single electric light that shone there, hanging down on a long cord from the flies. Her face in the pale light that reached us looked white and tired. And, as she talked, the shadows of the empty auditorium crowded close around us.

“Yes. This morning — in the upper hall. We were all there, Dad, Anne, Dunning—”

Merlini stopped her. “Wait. Where did all this happen? What house is it that’s haunted?”

“Ours, in Mamaroneck. Father and the others took the plane back from Miami last night after I’d phoned long distance and told him about the flower vase that fell and smashed in the hall when Phillips and I were there less than ten feet away. I was actually looking at it when it tipped over. And it seemed exactly as if someone — someone we couldn’t see had pushed it. And then—”

“Miss Wolff,” Merlini broke in. “Please. We’re not going at this right at all. I don’t even know who Phillips is. Let’s go way back to the beginning and then sneak up on the ghost slow and easy and in a straight line. When was it that you disagreed with your father and left home?”

“Sunday morning, a week ago. With no warning at all, Dad suddenly decided that we were all going to Miami. He didn’t discuss it; he merely issued orders. When I woke I found that the maid had already packed my bags. I protested. I didn’t want to go anywhere just then. I knew you had issued a casting call for Monday morning. Dad insisted. They could have heard him across on Long Island. I can handle him sometimes, but this wasn’t one of them. I pretended finally to give in and went with them to the airport. But just before the plane took off, I ducked out.”

“Did he explain this sudden yearning for Miami?”

“I—” Kay gave me a sidewise glance, then looked at the floor. “No. He didn’t.”

“I know that answer,” I said. “He was avoiding me. The twenty-five miles between Mamaroneck and New York is too close for comfort for either of us. And he didn’t want me to see Kay. He even managed it so that I thought she was in Miami when she wasn’t. If I had known he was so afraid of ghosts, I’d have dressed up in a sheet and—”

“You,” Merlini said. “I thought you’d come into this, somewhere. The more I hear the less I understand. But go on, Miss Wolff. Then what?”

I started once more to try to talk to Kay, but she got there first.

“I took an apartment in the Village,” she said. “I rehearsed here all week. Then, on Sunday, I took a chance on going out to the house to pick up some clothes I needed. I didn’t think Phillips — he’s the butler — would dare to hold me forcibly. He wasn’t even surprised when I walked in. He was too upset. That was when the vase fell and smashed — just after I’d come in. There was no one in the house, and it wasn’t done with wires or threads. I looked.”

“No one else in the house?” Merlini asked. “Aren’t there other servants?”

“Not Sunday. Phillips was hiring more. The maids and the cook left on Friday without giving notice, the day after Scotty Douglass disappeared.”

“The day after—” Merlini shook his head in a baffled way. “You’re hopping, skipping, and jumping again. Who is Scotty?”

“Our boatkeeper and general handy man of all work. No one has seen him since last Wednesday night. None of his clothes or the other things in his rooms over the boathouse are missing. Kay looked up at the stage, frowning. “He has simply vanished into thin air like one of your tricks. I–I don’t like it. I’m afraid—”

“Were the police notified?”

“No. Phillips phoned Father Friday after the other servants quit. He suggested that. But Dad vetoed it. Phillips isn’t exactly a cheerful soul. There was a murder once at a place where he worked — an unsolved one — and I’ve always felt that he rather looked forward to the next one. He reads too many detective stories and true-crime magazines. Dad knows him and discounts his viewing with alarm. He told Phillips Scotty had probably gone off, as he’s done once or twice before, on a drinking spree. ‘When he returns,’ Dad said, ‘dock him and warn him that next time he’s fired.’ Dad’s very lenient with Scotty. He saved Dad’s life two years ago when the Seahawk burned off Montauk Point.

“But it’s been four days and more now. And not a sign of Scotty. He’s never stayed away this long before. And he couldn’t have quit like the others. He’d have taken his clothes. I like Scotty. He taught me to sail when I was knee-high to a duck. I’m afraid something has happened to him. If Dad doesn’t report to the police, I’m going to.”

“I think I agree,” Merlini said. “Scotty vanishes on Wednesday night or sometime shortly after. The maids and the cook light out on Friday. Sunday a flower vase acts oddly. What else? Did the maids see the ghost?”

“I don’t know. I think it was the midnight noises and the broken china. There are rappings all through the house, and footsteps. Dishes have a habit of getting out of the china closet in the night and breaking themselves. The last few nights pictures have begun to change places on the walls, statuary moves about, ink bottles tip over.”

Merlini’s interest waxed rapidly. “Poltergeist phenomena,” he said. “Best grade. Your father and Galt should be tickled pink at such a made-to-order chance to investigate.”

“I know. That’s what I expected. But it hasn’t worked out that way at all. I phoned Dad this time myself, late yesterday afternoon. I was worried about Scotty. When I told him everything that had happened since Phillips had talked to him, he said, ‘We’ll take the next plane out.’ And he didn’t seem pleased. He sounded worried and upset.”

“And all this time,” I put in, “I thought he was running from me.”

“You?” Kay, startled, looked at me directly. “What do you mean?”

“I was in Miami yesterday.”

They both blinked at me. Kay started to say something more, then stopped.

Merlini scowled at us both. “There are wheels within wheels, I can see that. But let’s take them one at a time. You say you saw the ghost. When did that happen?”

“Early this morning. I went with Leonard, the chauffeur, to meet Dad and the others at the airport after I had bandaged his head. When we got back—”

“Ross,” Merlini interrupted. “Does she always skip around like this? What happened to the chauffeur’s head?”

“He was investigating the ghost. He and Phillips had decided to sit up and see what happened. I was just going up to bed when we heard a loud thumping noise on the second floor. It stopped as soon as we started up the stairs. We found nothing. I didn’t feel as sleepy then as I had. The noise seemed to have come from my bedroom. So I stood watch with them. We heard nothing more until nearly five when the thumping noise began again. Leonard sneaked up quietly in the dark. The noise stopped after a bit, but he didn’t come back. Phillips and I found him unconscious on the hall floor just outside my bedroom. He had a nasty bang on the head and there was a Louis XIV dueling pistol from the gun room lying on the floor beside him.”

“And he had discovered—”

“Nothing at all.”

“Leonard doesn’t scare easy, does he? Tracking the ghost in the dark, that way. Does he agree that it’s something supernatural?”

Kay shook her head. “Not Leonard. He wouldn’t believe in ghosts if they appeared by the dozen at high noon. But, if it isn’t a ghost, it has to go somewhere — and there’s no place for it to go. Dad, because of his valuable firearm collection, has the house wired with the very latest thing in burglar alarms — a photoelectric system. When it’s on, a mouse couldn’t get in or out without setting off an alarm bell that would wake the—” She stopped, realizing what it was she had been about to say.

“You searched the house then?” Merlini asked.

“Phillips and Leonard did.”

“And the alarm was on the whole time?”

“Yes.”

Merlini took out a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully against the back of his hand. “And, after you had returned from the airport?”

“Phillips met us at the door. He looked a bit white about the gills and was obviously relieved to see us. The ghost had been busy again. He showed us this.”

Kay unsnapped her purse, and took out two sheets of yellowed paper, folded together. She handed them to Merlini. As he opened them out, I saw that they were pages that had been ripped from an old book.

He spread them carefully on his knees, and his eyes, as he looked at them, were round. He looked at Kay once more as if he still expected her to vanish in a puff of smoke. Then he scowled for a long moment at the exhibits without speaking. One was a title page in French.

My French is rustier than the hinges on a fifteenth-century tomb, but, lacking any at all, I could still have seen quite plainly that the Reverend’s unholy treatise was admirably exhaustive — and very appropriate.

The other page, the frontispiece from the same volume, was equally germane. It bore a steel engraving depicting two rather melodramatically posed old boys who were up to no earthly good in a graveyard. The double line of a cabalistic magic circle was scratched on the ground encircling their feet. One man who held a large book and a wand was apparently intoning the necessary invocation while his awe-struck companion lifted a flaring torch high above his head. In the background, the Gothic towers of an old church rose above the trees, silhouetted by the cold rays of a moon whose full circle in the clouded sky was an awkwardly placed compositional element. A skull and one or two thigh bones lay among the leaves in the foreground, attesting, I suppose, the inefficiency of the sexton in charge.

The picture’s center of interest, however, was none of these things. A ghostly spirit, whose empty eye sockets were dark holes in a fleshless face, stood stiffly at attention before the two necromancers. It was clothed quite modestly in a quaintly designed, ruffled, and, to my taste, comic shroud. It shone like a Mazda bulb with a luminescence of its own so bright that the moon and the torch both seemed unnecessary.

My skeptical attitude was, perhaps, carping. The artist had obviously not had the slightest intention of treating the subject with any humor. And I noticed that Merlini didn’t treat it that way either. On the contrary, he scowled at the drawing, and, when he spoke to Kay, his voice was completely serious.

He pointed to a rough-edged triangular perforation in the upper center of the illustration, and to another, similarly placed, in the title page. It punctured the word “revenants.”

“What made those?” he asked.

“Phillips,” Kathryn said, “found tire pages pinned to the library wall with a revolutionary bayonet from the gun room. The book from which they were torn, and others, mostly on occult subjects, had been pulled down from the shelves and scattered on the floor.”

Merlini’s long forefinger extended and indicated the two sorcerers. “Do you know who these men are?”

“Father mentioned the names, John Dee and Edward Kelly, but I don’t know who they were.”

“I do,” Merlini said. “Doctor John Dee, the rather scared gentleman with the torch, was a sixteenth-century scholar, a boy prodigy who entered Cambridge at fifteen and was later appointed to a fellowship at Trinity by Henry VIII. He gained considerable fame as a lecturer on mathematics and might, even today, be remembered in scientific histories if his interest in astronomy hadn’t been so astrological. He was officially employed, when Elizabeth ascended the throne, to choose the most auspicious day for her coronation. She consulted him on numerous occasions, once hiring him to undo the evil charms of her royal image in wax when one was discovered in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

“In his diary, he claims that the angel Uriel appeared before him one day and presented him with a crystal whose occult properties almost made communication between this world and the next as regularly operating a service as Western Union. Particularly after he had taken on Edward Kelly as his skryer or medium.

“Kelly, although the engraver of this picture seems to have been unaware of it, was pilloried in Lancaster for forging title deeds and suffered the loss of both ears, a mutilation he tried to conceal by wearing a close-fitting black skullcap cut after the fashion of a hangman’s. It gave him a diabolic and sinister appearance which I imagine proved an asset in his line of business. He approached the learned doctor bearing excellent references, an alchemical treatise in manuscript, and a vial of white powder that had been taken by thieves from the sepulcher of Saint Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. His Grace’s unorthodox hobby of attempting the transmutation of metals via the philosopher’s stone doubtless had something to do with his present reputation as the patron saint of goldsmiths.

“To the Dee-Kelly partnership, the latter also brought a vivid imagination, and their hermetical researches were interspersed with long sessions of crystal gazing during which Kelly reported some remarkable visions. On one occasion he stated that he saw a nude female spirit who insisted that he and the doctor should exchange wives. Kelly, at the moment, was on bad terms with his own. He got away with it, too. And, if you think I’m making this up as I go along, the manuscript outlining this curious communal arrangement still exists in Dee’s own handwriting.”

“Good God!” I protested weakly. “Footnotes too!”

Merlini ignored my critical snort and went merrily ahead with his biographical essay. “On a later trip to the continent, Kelly so impressed even the German Emperor, Maximilian II, with a prospectus of his alchemical prowess that he was made a marshal of Bohemia. He was, however, a bit tardy in turning out gold by mass-production methods and the impatient emperor imprisoned him with orders to put up or else. Kelly, on the spot, tried to escape via the traditional bed-sheet method, took a tumble, and died of injuries received. Doctor Dee, having returned to his home at Mortlake, eventually—”

“Class,” I broke in impatiently, “is dismissed.”

Merlini, once started on a history of magic, either white or black, was all too likely to deliver an oration that carried it in extensive detail right on up to the present day, with an added appendix of predictions as to its future.

“Dee and Kelly are an interesting pair,” I protested, “but there’s a contemporary ghost under discussion, have you forgotten?”

He shook his head. “No, hardly. I was just wondering why he took the trouble to hunt through those books for this particular picture and title page. I thought that possibly the background might suggest what he had in mind.” He looked at Kathryn again. “Or is it a female haunt?”

Kay smiled, but it was a pale ghost of a smile and her gloved fingers played nervously with the purse in her lap. “No. It’s a man. We were all standing there, by the library door, looking at that picture and listening to Phillips when something made me glance up toward the head of the stairs.”

Kay’s fingers tightened on the purse, their nervous motion gone. Her voice was a low half whisper. “It stood there looking clown at us, watching very quietly as if it had been there for a long time. I cried out, I think, and Father, who had been examining the torn pages, dropped them. He stood in front of me and I saw his face as he turned. It was as if something had struck him a violent physical blow. Dunning stared upward too, apparently almost as shocked as Father. Something struck me heavily in the back so that I stumbled forward and almost fell. Anne had fallen in a faint.

“And then, quickly, the figure moved. The upper hall, even in the daytime, is shadowy and dark. It seemed to melt back into it. And, just as it vanished, the doorbell rang.

“Phillips had started uncertainly toward the stairs. Now he stopped, came back and threw open the door, thankful, I think, for the excuse. Francis Galt stood outside the door. Father had phoned him from the airport.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘where’s your ghost? I’ve come to—’

“He saw Anne’s body on the floor, and he stopped. Dunning, pointing, said, ‘It’s up there. We saw it just now!’ It was the first time I’ve ever seen Dunning upset.

“Galt didn’t ask any questions. He went up the steps three at a time. Phillips followed him, though not quite so fast. And that’s all.”

“All?” Merlini said. “Then Galt found nothing?”

“Nothing. He searched the house. And yet the alarm system was still operating.”

“The front door,” Merlini asked. “Isn’t that hooked in with the system? You and the others and then Galt had just come through it.”

“It can be opened without disturbing the alarm as long as it’s done from the inside. There’s a switch there that frees that door. But that was the only way out and we all stood in front of it.”

“The only way out,” Merlini said slowly, “for anyone but a ghost. You haven’t told us the most important thing, you know.”

Kathryn looked puzzled.

“The ghost. You haven’t told us what he looked like.”

Kay glanced again at the engraving in Merlini’s hand. “I’m afraid he wasn’t as orthodox as Doctor Dee’s ghost. He wasn’t luminous and his clothes were ordinary enough, except that they seemed to be very dirty, as if he had been lying on the round. They were streaked with dried mud. He wore a black hat that was crumpled and out of shape, and a dark overcoat. His face was thin and sharp with deep black eyes — and as white as paper. He had a thin mustache that curved down around his mouth and a black short-cropped beard.

“And — oh yes, Galt did find one thing, a small piece of dried clay where the figure had stood watching us. There were two pine needles embedded in it.”

Kathryn’s description of the ghost was, to me, just a bit anticlimactic. Its effect on Wolff, Dunning, and Anne had led me to expect something a bit more in the Gothic manner, a pale, gibbering, wraithlike phantom, or some monstrous evil shadow of impalpable terror out of Bulwer-Lytton, James, or Machen. Later, when I found out what had been in Wolff’s mind, and in Anne’s and Dunning’s, I realized that the ghost was all anyone could desire — and then some.

I didn’t know what Merlini thought of the apparition as described, but I knew he wasn’t going to be able to resist it. Kay had given him so much else besides — a strange disappearance, poltergeist phenomena in carload lots, and a problem that paralleled the underwater coffin escape. If Francis Galt’s search of the house had been thorough — and he’d had plenty of experience along those lines — and if the ghost was anything other than the ectoplasmic shade it pretended to be, then it had somehow escaped a house guarded as securely as though it too, like the coffin, had been bolted and submerged under water.

Merlini frowned up at the empty stage, then glanced again at Kay. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. The show, on the dizzy edge of financial disaster, needed his undivided attention. And yet, the story she told was every bit as tempting as any that Scheherazade had ever left unfinished.

“And still,” he asked, “there’s no sign of the missing boatkeeper?”

Kay shook her head, scowling. “No. None. And Dad flatly refuses to report it. He won’t, or pretends he won’t, believe that anything can have happened to Scotty. But he protests a little too much. I think he knows more than he’ll admit about what’s going on out there. And whatever it is, he’s scared to death of it. I’m afraid that—” Her voice trailed off as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was she feared.

“I do wish,” Merlini said slowly, “that this ghost had picked some other house to haunt. I put the skids under one of Dudley Wolff’s ghosts once, and he didn’t like it at all. He wouldn’t let me touch any haunt of his with a ten-foot pole. And he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead with any of his folding money invested in a show that I—”

“But,” Kay objected, “don’t you see? It’s different this time. He’s not afraid you might expose the ghost as a fake; he’s scared that no one can. And he’s so sure it’s the real thing he’ll jump at the chance to show you up, to make you admit that ghosts can be made of something besides cheesecloth.”

“Maybe so, but your father is a solid mass of sales resistance. If he’s as sold on this ghost as you say, there’s only one way to change his mind. I’d have to catch the spook and deliver it up, tied securely hand and foot, with a doctor’s affidavit swearing that it was thoroughly alive and kicking and not the least little bit dead. Not only that, but I’d have to come up with neatly dovetailed, watertight, ironclad solutions to the half-dozen secondary puzzles you’ve served up. Even then I’d get an argument. I did last time. Proving Dudley Wolff wrong is no way to induce him to invest money in—”

Kay didn’t give up easy. “But Dad’s a gambler,” she countered. “Suppose I can get him to cover that challenge money with some of his own? That’ll get you ten grand—”

“Or,” Merlini said unhappily, “lose it. Half that challenge money was put up by the American Scientist. The other five grand is, or was, mine. I’m afraid that I had to — well, put it into the show. And now you pop up and calmly suggest still another way for me to risk losing it!”

“It’s also a chance,” Kay insisted, “your only chance to get the backing you’ve got to have.”

Merlini thought about it a minute. Then, still doubtful, he looked at me. “Ross, if you ever marry her, let this be a warning. She doesn’t seem to be able to take no for an answer.”

The way Kay had been pretending that I wasn’t there would have told a blind man that our diplomatic relations were strained. Merlini was far from blind. If he smelled a mouse and hoped, with this statement, to flush him out into the open, he succeeded. It was the chance I had been waiting for. I grabbed it.

“I’m not taking no for an answer either,” I said. “Not until I’ve got one or two things off my chest.” I vaulted the back of my seat, sat down in the row behind next to Kathryn, and talked fast.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I’ve worked overtime at it. But your loving father and his trusty henchmen have sidetracked all phone calls, letters, and telegrams. Suspecting that, I went all the way to Florida hoping to break through the censorship, storm the defenses, and see you in person.

Kay frowned. She didn’t seem very convinced. “You thought I was there?”

“It looked that way. Phillips insisted you were out of town, and I discovered that your father had taken four seats on the Miami plane. Then later, when I got a wire from Miami signed with your name—”

“A wire? Signed with my name?”

“Yes. It was your father’s heavy hand trying to misdirect me. He figured that if I thought you were in Miami, I wouldn’t be looking for you in New York. The wire told me to go soak my head. You didn’t send it, but you act as if those were your sentiments. Are they?”

She seemed uncertain. “Then you didn’t get my note?”

“No. Except for that telegram, I haven’t had one single solitary—”

“But I wrote one. Sunday morning just before we left for the airport. I told you where to reach me. I said, Come back. All is forgiven. But when I didn’t get as much as a postcard in reply—”

“You thought the same things I did. You didn’t mail the note in person, did you?”

“No. I gave it to Phillips. Oh damn!”

“Damn is inadequate. Phillips merely obeyed orders. The famous Wolff efficiency never fails. Your father deserves to have ghosts in his hair. I hope they bite.”

Her hand grasped mine. “Yes, Ross, he does. Only not this one. It’s not some harmless practical joke. It’s serious, deadly serious, and I–I don’t like it at all.”

I had to agree there. “It doesn’t look much like a joke from here. It’s too elaborate. Someone is taking far too many pains.” I turned. “Merlini—”

He stood up. “If you can fix it so that I’m not thrown out on my ear the minute I set foot in the house—”

“I will,” Kay promised quickly. “I’ve got to. Can you come now?”

“No. There are a million things I’ll have to do here first. Besides, you’d better go ahead and smooth the way.”

“Smooth some for me too,” I said. “I’m sitting in on this.”

Kay objected. “Ross, be reasonable. I’m no magician. If you show up hell will pop.”

“It’s popping now. You’re afraid of what may happen out there. If you’re going to park yourself right in the line of fire, I’m coming. Then too, if I can help lay the haunt, maybe Dudley will relent a bit and stop growling at me like a cement mixer.”

“It’s impossible. You’ll never get past Phillips. And there’s no way that I can get you in. I’m no magician.”

“We’ll leave that to Merlini. He is a magician. I’ll go as his first-assistant ghost exterminator and he can insist that my services are indispensable. When the big bad wolf huffs and puffs, thinking it’s just a gag so I can get to see you, you enter on cue from left center, register surprise, disdain, and general haughtiness. Make him believe that his highhanded censorship of the mails has been successful. You haven’t heard from me and don’t care now if you never do again. He’ll like that so well he’ll let me stay just so he can watch me squirm.”

“Darling,” Kay said. “You’re crazy.”

“Sure. Crazy about you. If it doesn’t work, I’ll improvise something. Never burn your bridges until you come to them.”

Merlini made a prediction. “Tonight is going to be interesting, whatever happens. I can see that.”

I made a prediction too. “Tomorrow night is going to be even more interesting.”

Kay said, “Tomorrow night?”

“Yes. I’ve reconsidered your proposal of marriage. The answer is yes. And immediately, before you disappear again.”

“This sounds like my cue,” Merlini said quickly. “I’ll see you later, Ross. Say nine o’clock at the shop.” He started off, then, over his shoulder, added, “I don’t want to spoil your fun but there’s a four-day wait in this state after you apply for a license. Didn’t you know?”

“Damn! You would have to remember something like that.” I looked at my watch. “Come on, Kay. We’ve just got time to make City Hall before it closes.”

But Kay was not enthusiastic. “Ross,” she said quietly. “I’ve reconsidered too. The proposal has been withdrawn.”

“It’s what?”

“It’s lapsed. I’ve been thinking it over. You were right. We can’t swing it now. Dad meant it when he promised to cut me out of his will. And until you get a job—”

“That’s easy. I’ve got one. Merlini just hired me. The salary may not run to mink coats, but—”

“It wouldn’t have to. I’d rather have you than a mink. But neither your job nor mine will have any salary attached unless the show opens. It won’t open unless Dad backs it, and if he ever suspects that doing that would help us to—”

“He won’t. Not until it’s too late. In his presence we glare at each other and don’t speak. But off stage—” I leaned over and kissed her quickly. When I discovered that there were no objections, I repeated the maneuver at greater length.

“Ross,” she said finally, “you talk too much. Why didn’t you think of that argument sooner?”

“Convinced?”

“Maybe. If we catch the ghost. If Dad backs the show. If our jobs pay off.” She stood up. “And, if I’m going to sell Dad that bill of goods, I’d better begin starting now.”

“Stop iffing,” I said as we went out to where her car was parked. “It’s a cinch. Boy meets girl, boy chases ghost, boy gets girl. At least it’s different.”

“Yes,” she said, “it will be if ghost gets boy.”

She said it lightly, but she didn’t fool anyone. Underneath she was far too serious. I was myself, for that matter, though I’d been trying not to show it. I knew that any ghost that had Dudley Wolff on the ropes was going to prove to be something special. I didn’t think I was going to like the critter much when I met it. I didn’t.

It was almost ten before Merlini could get away. And by then I was really bothered. I took the wheel, prayed that whatever traffic cops were abroad would be looking the other way, and stepped on the gas. Merlini tried to fold his six-foot length into a comfortable sleeping position on the back seat.

“Whipping up a Broadway show,” he said, “is one of the things that doth murder sleep. Investigating haunted houses is another. I’m going to get forty winks while I can. Wake me when you sight land.”

“No you don’t,” I protested. “Not just yet. There’s one thing I want to know first. How come you’re in Dudley Wolff’s little black book, too? What was this ‘last time’ you and Kay mentioned?”

“Oh that wasn’t anything much. Dudley and I had a little argument about some ectoplasm. He lost. He didn’t like it much. That’s all. Be quiet and let me—”

“No. Any time Wolff loses an argument that’s news. I want to hear about it. Come on. Give.”

He answered with a snore. I flicked the radio switch on the dashboard, got a news broadcast, and turned the volume on full.

“All right, Ross,” he said. “If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ve got a question too. Give me the answer and I’ll tell you the story.”

I turned the radio off. “Sure. Let’s have it.” I spoke too soon and said too much. I knew I had been doublecrossed as soon as he began.

“A man is rowing upstream,” he said. “He passes two mile markers. At the second his hat blows off into the river. But he isn’t very quick-witted and doesn’t notice his loss until ten minutes later. Then he turns around and rows back to retrieve the hat. He fishes it out of the water at the first mile marker. His name was J. Wellington Sloop and the hat was size 7⅜. Wake me when you’ve figured out the speed of the current.”

“Sold,” I groaned. “And down the river too.” I didn’t even try to dope out the answer. I had heard Merlini propound puzzles before. They were always hand-picked stickers. I flipped the radio switch again.

“Ross,” he objected. “You gave me your word of honor. You promised—”

“I know you,” I replied. “I had my fingers crossed. Give up?”

“Yes. You win. Turn off that infernal machine.”

I obeyed. He said, “The speed of the current can be obtained by simply—”

“Hey! I don’t give a damn about the current speed under an escaped lunatic in a rowboat. I want to know—”

“You and your single-track mind! All right. Remember Jeanne Veiller?”

I nodded. “The name’s familiar, but I don’t place the face.”

“She was Dudley Wolff’s 1934 candidate for the psychic Pulitzer Prize: She specialized in ectoplasmic forms. Best grade too. She produced ’em at the drop of a hat and under the most rigid test conditions. Wolff and Galt gave her a thorough going over, applied all the usual tests for fraud and a lot of new ones. Result: negative. And then, finally, they climbed way out on a limb and announced that the ectoplasm was the genuine McCoy. Francis Galt knows a thing or two about mediumistic monkeyshines and his okay isn’t easy to get. Jeanne knew that, and she figured that if she got a passing grade from him she could do as well with any tests I might think up. So she put in a claim for the American Scientist challenge money.”

I began to remember some of the headlines now. “She came close to getting it, too, didn’t she?”

“Yes. Too close for comfort. I was on the spot. Every spiritualist in the country was grinning from ear to ear, baying at my heels, and ready to laugh out loud if I failed to upset the psychic applecart. I went over the séance photos Galt had taken with a fine-toothed magnifying glass at least a dozen times before I found anything that even looked like a clue — a faint dark line along the edge of one ghost form that looked suspiciously like a selvage.”

“Meaning that the ectoplasm really was all wool and a yard wide?”

“Yes, but not wool. Cheesecloth, the old standby. The trouble was that Galt had searched the lady so thoroughly that producing cheesecloth was nearly as good a trick as producing the real thing in ectoplasm. It was a better trick than taking a rabbit from a hat. She seemed to be doing it without a hat. I had to find out where she was hiding it. I went through all the motions Galt had gone through. I saw to it that she disrobed completely in the presence of a medical man who gave her a thorough physical search. He signed an affidavit swearing that she wasn’t hiding as much as a hairpin on her person. Then she went into a bathing suit that had been supplied by the committee and into a séance room where no ectoplasm could have previously been planted because no one even remotely connected with her had been informed of its location until the last minute. The spectators — committeemen, newspapermen, Wolff, and Galt watched from another room, through glass. No one had a ghost of a chance to slip her anything.

“And the ectoplasm showed up right on schedule just the same! She even rubbed it in by producing more than usual. And then, after posing for a few pictures, it dematerialized. She took her rabbit from a top hat and then put it back in again, only she didn’t have a top hat, or did she?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Look, suppose we go back to that one about the lunatic in the rowboat. I’d just as soon—”

“It’s too late now. You asked for this. There were two possibilities. One, the ten-thousand-dollar answer: the ectoplasm was a visible manifestation of spirit substance that came from and returned to an astral fourth-dimensional plane — or something. Two, the answer I seemed to be stuck with: it was still cheesecloth no matter how thin it was sliced, and it came from and returned to some hiding place all the previous investigators, including my doctor, had overlooked. There was such a place, and I knew it. But I also knew I was going to have the devil’s own time getting a look into it. So I tried a spot of misdirection.

“The séance was over. Miss Veiller looked happy and confident. Wolff and Galt were as pleased as Punch. I pretended to look worried. The doctor began taking a few temperature, pulse, and blood-pressure readings in the interest of medical science. And then, when he tipped her head back and began giving her eyes a once-over, I gave Burt the high sign. He wheeled in a portable X-ray machine we had waiting and got a quick candid shot of her midriff.

“That tore it. The photo showed the dark silhouette of a safety pin in her tummy. She had balled up the cheesecloth, held it together with the pin, swallowed it prior to the séance, regurgitated it for its ectoplasmic appearance, then gulped it down again. That was the hat her rabbit came from. What Jeanne hadn’t counted on was the fact that as an ex-circus man I’ve seen quite a few sword swallowers in action. Also human ostriches who swallow lemons, watches, white mice—”

“Uh huh,” I said. “And I can see next day’s headlines: Merlini Can’t Swallow Spooks but Medium Does.”

“Yes. They had a lot of fun with it. Wolff and Galt found themselves neck-deep in the wrong sort of publicity. Inside Story on Exposé. Medium Lunches on Ectoplasm. Wolff and Galt Eat Crow. I felt sorry for them — as much as I could, remembering that if I hadn’t been able to blow the gas the laugh would have been on the other foot.”

“They admitted they’d been bamboozled then?”

“No. Not Wolff. He’d stuck his neck out so far he couldn’t pull it in gracefully. He hinted for publication that the evidence of fraud had been faked, that I had added the pin to the back of the medium’s bathing suit by sleight of hand, and Galt suggested that it could have been double exposed on the X-ray plate. I tried to counter that by asking for another séance and permission to use a stomach pump. Jeanne pretended that she didn’t hear. And that’s why we’ve got such a tough row to hoe tonight. We’ve not only got to catch our ghost with its shroud down, but prove at the same time, with no possible probable shadow of doubt whatever that our evidence isn’t tailor-made for the occasion.”

“Yes, I can see why you might shy away from any ghost of Wolff’s. But, if Kay is right, if he really does want this one laid—”

“He may convince easier. If she’s right. If not, we won’t get past the front door.”

Apparently Kay was right. We did get in, although for a moment it looked very much as though I were coming right back out again. My old pal, Phillips, nodded when Merlini introduced himself. “Yes,” he said, “Mr. Wolff is expecting—”

He hit a snag. The polished regularity of the Phillips features were capable of registering surprise after all. He nearly goggled when he saw me march in behind Merlini. It was quite obvious that I wasn’t included in the expectations.

Working on the theory that offense is the best defense, I said, “Well, fancy seeing you here!”

He played what I was beginning to think was his only record. “Miss Wolff isn’t in.”

“Of course not,” I agreed, handing him my coat and hat. “She’s in Miami, or maybe Iraq. I didn’t come to see her. I have an appointment with a haunt.”

Merlini gave Phillips his things, looked interestedly at the camera that was set up on a tripod facing the stairs, and said, “He’s with me, Phillips. My assistant. It’s quite all right.”

Phillips had his doubts about that, but he didn’t argue. He merely led us to a door on the right of the hall and opened it in the manner of a Roman arena attendant ushering two early Christians in to the waiting lions.

The living-room was nearly as large as an arena, and, with its formally placed, massive Tudor furniture, its dark, oak-paneled walls and heavy-raftered ceiling, about as comfortably inviting as a period room on display in a museum. There were only one or two differences. The neatly lettered cards reading Do Not Touch were missing from the chair seats; the dim half-light with its gloomy shadows had been replaced by a white glare as bright as that in a photographer’s studio; and Dudley Wolff was there.

Kay was there too, and Francis Galt. But it was Wolff who held my attention. The change in the man was astonishing. His familiar scowl was present, but all his characteristic self-confidence had vanished. His head, as we entered, jerked around with an abrupt nervous movement. His glance and gesture were uncertain and apprehensive.

Then he saw me. For a moment his rigid, uncompromising self-assurance almost returned. His shoulders straightened and his jaw pushed out belligerently. But the explosion that came wasn’t up to the usual Wolff standard. He glanced once across at Kay, hesitated perceptibly, and then, when he spoke, there was a thin shaky edge to the deep vigorous rumble of his voice.

“You again? Dammit, why can’t I turn around in my own house without—”

Merlini pretended surprise. “Oh, you know Mr. Harte? I took the liberty of bringing him to assist—”

Wolff’s manners hadn’t improved. He turned his back on Merlini and faced Kathryn. “So. This is what was behind your suggestion? This is why—”

Kay stuck her chin out too. “I didn’t invite Mr. Harte,” she said truthfully enough. “If I wanted to see him I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to do it here. You might credit me with some intelligence.”

Wolff glared at us both for a moment, uncertainly. Then he strode across to the table in the center of the room and his hand reached toward a row of pushbuttons. My plan wasn’t working at all. I dropped it and tried another.

“I came out here on business,” I said quickly. “I offered to assist Merlini because I’m working again, and I want an interview. But not with your daughter or with you. I want one with your ghost.”

Wolff’s thumb jabbed at a button. I talked faster, trying to get in a last argument before the strong-arm boys arrived.

“I’ve already got enough facts for a story, one that’ll make a dull and sickening thud when it lands on page one. If man bites dog is news, think what Ghost Bites Wolff will be. Think what Winchell will do to it. What well-known munitions magnate in black-sheep’s clothing isn’t half as worried about the current Senatorial Investigation as he is about hearing things that go bump in the night? Is the spook of Wolff’s manor oke or hoke? You don’t want that, or do you?”

Wolff glowered. “And what do I do about it?”

“We might trade. You give me a break and I’ll give you one.” Behind me I heard the door open.

It didn’t work. Dudley Wolff may have been scared, but not of me. “No reporter,” he growled, “is going to blackmail—”

As Wolff’s glance turned toward the door, his voice came to such an abrupt halt that I whirled around half expecting to see the ghost creeping up on me from behind. Dunning stood there, just inside the door, his pale face at least two shades lighter. His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Someone,” he said with a rush, “has forced a case in the gun room. There are four guns missing. And—”

He hesitated. The silence was absolute and the interval before he spoke again seemed endless.

“Four guns,” he added finally, “and cartridges to fit!”

If we had needed anything more to tell us that what we were investigating was no practical joke — this was it. Wolff stared at Dunning for a moment, then abruptly started toward him, steering a course so direct that I had to step back in order to avoid being run down. He had forgotten me completely.

Dunning let him pass, then turned, and followed him out. Galt glanced nervously at Merlini and myself, started to speak, changed his mind, and hurried after them. Kathryn didn’t move.

Merlini looked at her. “I guess you called it,” he said. “If the ghost is the thief, he’s certainly up to no good. Come on. It might be wise if we all stick together from here on.”

She led the way out across the hall toward the door just at the foot of the stairs. My knowledge of firearms was limited to a nodding out-of-date acquaintance with the army Springfield gained in a college R.O.T.C. class and a scattered miscellany of dubious information acquired in my reading of detective fiction. But I knew, as soon as I stepped into the gun room, that Wolff’s collection was the sort that would make any museum curator mutter enviously in his sleep. And I suspected that his name was on the mailing list of every gun dealer in the country, right up at the top and in capital letters. He hadn’t had to limit himself, as many collectors do, to a specialized collection. He had gone the whole hog from harquebuses to Zigzag Derringers — and beyond.

A window, covered on the outside with close-set iron grilles, pierced the opposite wall above a worktable flanked by bookshelves. The four walls were covered ceiling-high with firearms arranged in neat chronological order. They began to the right of the window with the earliest fourteenth-century hand cannon, and progressed clockwise around the room through the matchlock, wheel lock, flintlock, percussion, and cartridge periods to the latest World War II automatic rifles. There were several allied objects; two or three pieces of armor, a case of swords, several crossbows, a halberd, and some powder horns.

In the center of the room a group of glass-covered exhibition cases held smaller special collections. One was of historical association pieces — guns that had been carried by such persons as Annie Oakley, Wyatt Earp, the Dalton boys, John Paul Jones, Bill Cody, and John Dillinger. There was a collection of Colts, one of dueling pistols, and one labeled: Special-Purpose Arms.

It was this last case which Wolff and Dunning were examining. The secretary pointed to several arms catalogues stacked on the case next in line.

“I found those,” he said, “scattered about on the special-purpose case. When I picked them up to return them to their shelves I saw immediately that two of the exhibits were gone. It looks as if someone had strewn the catalogues about so that we wouldn’t notice—”

Merlini, who had lifted the hinged top of the case and was examining the lock, said, “Bolt sheared off. And the shape of this indentation in the frame would suggest—” He glanced quickly around the room, saw several military rifles in a near-by rack, and finished, “that it was levered up with one of those bayonets.”

Wolff stared at the case with a scowl that promised trouble. Dunning fidgeted uneasily. I crowded in, wondering what special-purpose arms were, and discovered that, without their labels, I wouldn’t have recognized many of them as guns at all. This was, evidently, the freaks-and-oddities department. Small typed cards below each specimen bore such inscriptions as: Apache Pistol Combination Revolver, Brass Knuckles, and Dagger: Poacher’s Cane Pistol; Belgian Harmonica; East Indian Combination Matchlock Pistol, Ax, and Dagger; “My Friend” Knuckle-Duster Pistol; English Duckfoot Flintlock; Pencil Pistol, Chicago Protector Palm Pistol; etc. etc.

There were empty spaces above two of the cards. Merlini read the description on one aloud, Campbell & Harris Spring Gun. 25 caliber. He looked up at Wolff. “What is a spring gun?”

“A trap gun,” Wolff answered, still staring at the case. “Fasten it to a tree or anchor it to the ground, tie a string to the hole provided in the trigger and stretch it across an animal run. Anything touching the string—”

Merlini nodded. “I get the idea. I don’t like it much.” He read from the second card. Vest-Pocket Model Revolver. Smallest practical 5-shot revolver made. 25 caliber. Grip and trigger folds up around cylinder, making it easy to carry in vest pocket or lady’s purse without being conspicuous. Weight: 5½ ounces. Overall length when folded: 3 inches. He paused a moment, then added, “Someone has peculiar tastes. Were they valuable?”

Wolff, who had gone over to the worktable under the window, said, “No. They’re both modern pieces.” He pulled open a drawer beneath the table. “Dunning. You said four guns. What others—”

The secretary turned. “The lock on that drawer has been forced the same way. Two of the .38 target pistols are gone.”

Wolff scowled. “You can forget those. I took them this morning. But I didn’t force this lock.” He lifted a cardboard carton from the drawer, took the cover off, and looked inside. “This what you meant when you said there were cartridges missing?”

Dunning nodded. “Yes. That box of twenty-fives was unopened this morning. Now there are six shells missing. The trap gun would hold one, the vest-pocket revolver, five.” His tone of voice was the same as though he were announcing the escape of a captive cobra. I knew how he felt. That trap gun, loaded and its whereabouts unknown, was definitely not a pleasant prospect.

“Those two guns you took, Wolff,” Merlini asked. “Where are they?”

The man motioned toward his hip. “I’ve got one. I gave Mrs. Wolff the other. In view of what’s been happening around here, I thought—”

“Loaded?”

“Yes. Naturally.”

Merlini cast an uneasy glance at the array of deadly weapons that surrounded us, then approached Wolff and looked at the lock of the open drawer. “Do collectors usually keep ammunition on hand to fit their pieces? I should think that many of these guns would be too valuable to fire.”

“Fire them?” Wolff looked startled. “Of course not. There’s a shooting range outside and this drawer holds several target pistols of various calibers. The shells are intended for those.”

Merlini came back again to the special-purpose-arms case, lifted its glass top, and peered through it at the light. “The missing guns from this case,” he asked, “when were they seen last?”

“They were there less than an hour ago,” Wolff replied. “Dunning and I added that English Duckfoot which came from Bannerman & Kimball while we were in Miami last week. Both the missing pieces were in the case then. What’s so interesting about that glass? Fingerprints?”

Merlini leaned above the next case and examined its glass also, moving his head from side to side to catch the reflection of the light. He repeated this maneuver with the one beyond that before answering. Then he said, “Yes and no. There are a number of finger and palm prints on the glass of these two cases, but not so much as a smudge on the special-purpose case. We can, apparently, strike the family ghost off the list of suspects.”

Galt frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Merlini said dryly, “if I were a bona fide astral visitant, lately returned from my grave, I wouldn’t worry too much about the fingerprints I might leave. I can imagine a ghost swiping those guns. I might even visualize him forcing the locks with a bayonet. There are tales in the history of apparitions of ghosts who have done things as strange. But I’m inclined to boggle at any haunt who lifts a corner of his shroud and carefully wipes away any possible fingerprints that he may have left behind. Aren’t you?”

Galt frowned. “I haven’t heard anyone say that the ghost is responsible for this.”

“No,” Merlini admitted. “Neither have I. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did.” He turned to Wolff. “There are two things I would suggest that you do at once.”

“What?”

“Gather up all the ammunition in this house and put it in the safe, if you’ve got one. And report your boatkeeper’s absence and the theft of these guns to the police.

Wolff scowled. “I’ll call the police when it becomes necessary. Those two guns haven’t gone far. They’re here in this house. They have to be. And I’m going to find them.”

“Here? What makes you so sure of that?”

“The burglar alarm has been operating all day. No one could possibly have got into or left this house except by Phillips’s permission. And he had orders—”

“The alarm system has a single central control?”

Wolff nodded. “Yes. In the hall below the stairs. Switch box. Locked. I have the key.”

Merlini wasn’t impressed. “These two locks were forced. Perhaps we’d better have a look at that one.”

He headed for the hall. Wolff blinked, and followed him out.

Then Kathryn turned to the secretary. “Dunning, Dad listens to you sometimes. Try to make him call the police.”

Dunning frowned uncertainly at the gun case. “If this sort of thing continues, he’ll have to.”

“If this sort of thing continues, it’ll be too late.” Kay moved with sudden decision toward the phone on the table. “I’m going to do it now.”

“Kay,” I said, “wait. There’s nothing they can do if he won’t—”

But Dunning had moved swiftly, cutting in ahead of her. He put his hand down over the phone. “No. He’ll be furious. And I have orders that—”

Kay tried to put Dunning in his place. “I’ll take the responsibility,” she said sharply. “Take your hand off that phone!”

But the secretary shook his head and stood firm. “No, I’m sorry.”

And from the doorway Wolff’s voice cut in, crisp and hard. “Stay where you are, Dunning. Who does she want to call?”

Kathryn turned. “The police. And, if I can’t phone them from here, I’ll do it from outside. This has gone far enough. Scotty—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Wolff said flatly. “I’ve told you that I don’t want the police. Your calling them will be useless if I won’t let them in. And I won’t. Dunning, go out to the switch box. Stand by to shut off the alarm when it rings.”

Wolff, followed by Merlini, crossed the room to the window. He unlocked it and pulled it open.

“The switch-box lock was all right?” Galt asked.

“Wolff nodded, then pointed to a round hole in the window frame. “An ultraviolet light in there sends a beam of black light diagonally across the window opening. It is reflected by a small countersunk mirror on the opposite side and recrosses to center on a photoelectric cell.” He indicated another, lower hole in the frame near the sill. “Even an intruder who knew where the beam was wouldn’t be able to edge in past it. There’s not enough free space. And the moment his body interrupts the beam—”

He put out his hand and brought it down within the window opening like a conjurer commanding a miracle. The loud strident clamor of an alarm bell came instantly. Then, as a door slammed and footsteps raced toward us from the rear of the hall outside, Dunning threw a switch and the ringing stopped. We heard his voice reassuring Phillips.

Wolff called, “Dunning, Phillips. Both of you come in here.”

Merlini said, “I still don’t see that the alarm proves those guns are still in the house. It may keep outsiders out, but it won’t keep insiders in. Since the front door has a separate, easily accessible switch of its own, anyone could have taken the guns out and left the door ajar so as to get back.”

Wolff shook his head. “After what happened here this morning, I told Phillips to keep the door locked.” He turned to the butler who waited in the doorway. “Have you let anyone in or out of this house since nine o’clock?”

Phillips indicated Merlini and myself. “These two gentlemen came in. That’s all.”

“You’re quite sure? What about Leonard?”

“Not since nine o’clock. He came in just before dinner when you sent for him, but went out again immediately. There hasn’t been anyone else.”

“All right. Until further notice, no one goes in or out under any circumstances until you ask me. There are two guns missing from this room. If no one has left in the last hour the guns are still in the house somewhere. The cook is new today. I want you to search her room. At once.”

Phillips blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s all. Report to me.”

The butler turned and went out.

Wolff waited a moment, then said, “And Dunning, while he’s doing that, you search his room!”

Dunning’s blink was even more pronounced, but he too merely nodded and went quickly out. If Wolff had told him to go jump in the lake I believe he would have done it just as promptly.

Francis Galt seemed amused. There was a twinkle in his eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses. “This looks like a game of musical chairs. Who searches Dunning’s room?”

Wolff had that answer ready. “You do. And don’t argue. Get going. You’ll have to get clear before he comes back.”

“But—” Galt started to protest. “I’m no—”

Wolff glared at him. “I said don’t argue.”

I thought for a moment that Galt was going to refuse flatly, but then he shrugged, turned, and started out. He stopped for a moment in the doorway.

“My bag of photographic equipment is here in the hall by the camera,” he said. “It’s unlocked and open for inspection.”

Wolff didn’t beat around the bush. I doubt if he knew how. “Thanks,” he said flatly. “I’ll look at it.”

Galt was not amused now. He said stiffly, “I’d prefer that you did. I’d rather not have this elimination process leave me out on a limb. But don’t move that camera. It’s all set and carefully focused on the stairs.”

“In hopes,” Merlini put in, trying to case the tension, “that Old Nick will soon be here?”

Galt nodded. “Yes. But you may not joke about it afterward. If you think you can prove that this ghost is made of cheesecloth, I warn you, you’ve got a job on your hands.”

“Galt,” Wolff commanded. “Get on with it and stop—”

Galt turned on his heel and vanished into the hall.

Wolff closed and locked the window, then crossed to the hall door and took a key ring from his pocket.

“I’m locking this room up,” he said.

As we filed out past him, Merlini asked, “Does Dunning have a key?”

Wolff nodded. “Yes. But I’ll collect it.”

“Any others?”

“No.” Wolff quickly locked the door and crossed to where the suitcase Galt had mentioned lay on the floor beside the camera tripod. He knelt, pulled it open, and began examining its contents.

I took a look at the camera. It was a Speed Graphic with synchronized flash. It was tilted back, set at f.4.5 and focused at twenty feet. Above the stair’s top step the second-floor hallway was dark.

I saw Merlini point at a row of light switches on the wall beside the gun-room door. “Will one of these give us some light in the hall up there?”

Kay nodded. “The one on the right. But Galt thinks that if it’s left dark, there’s a better chance—”

Merlini flipped the switch. Nothing happened. The darkness beyond the stairs remained as black as ever.

“Did he unscrew the bulb just to make sure?” Merlini asked.

Wolff looked up, surprised. “No. On the contrary, he put in a photoflood bulb so that he’d have plenty of light when we wanted it. It worked all right before. Someone—” Wolff started to get to his feet nervously. “Someone, Merlini finished, doesn’t like light. It looks promising. It may mean that the ghost’s appearance is guaranteed.” He turned to me. “Ross, check that camera. See if it’s ready for business. It would be too bad if, when our astral visitor appears—”

I saw the package of photographic film drop from Dudley Wolff’s fingers toward the floor, heard the quick intake of his breath, and, for a brief split second, glimpsed the terror that was on his face. My gaze jerked upward.

If speaking of the devil makes him appear, Merlini had done it. The ghost was there on the second floor beyond the balcony rail — a white blur of face and two hands floating in the dark. It was the same face Kathryn had described, thin, sharp-featured, its full lips surrounded by the thin mustache and close-cropped beard. Black eyes, like the cutout holes in a mask, stared down, fixed on Wolff. And, slowly, one hand moved, its forefinger pointing.

For a brief moment we stared soundlessly and without motion. Then, as though some invisible dam had burst, both sound and motion spilled over, rushing down upon us.

Merlini’s voice struck out at me, a thin knife-edged whisper.

“Camera, Ross! Quick!”

I brought my eyes down long enough to locate the cable release. I grabbed for it, pressed it, and then jumped. The sharp brilliant flare of the flash bulb was accompanied by a completely unexpected reverberating roar!

Then I saw the gun in Wolff’s hand kick back and saw him steady it to fire again. But, in the same instant, his target, the phantom whatever-it-was, moved, swiftly sideways to the right and vanished.

I suddenly found myself going up the stairs three steps at a time. Mr. Ghost didn’t appear to be such a healthy specimen, and my ghost-laying strategy, what I had of one, was based on the principle of the direct frontal attack.

But, when I reached the top, my next move wasn’t so obvious. The hallway to the right down which the ghost had gone was as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta. I hesitated, remembering those missing guns.

I looked back over my shoulder and saw Merlini straighten up from above Galt’s suitcase, a large electric torch in his hand. Then, as he started up the stairs toward me, from somewhere beyond the darkness that filled the second-floor corridor my ears caught the faint sound of a door closing.

A second later all hell broke loose.

It sounded as though a major power had declared war. The first shot was followed by a woman’s high shrill scream. A second report cut across that, and then after a short interval three more followed in rapid smashing succession.

I ducked instinctively, not at all sure who was being fired at and feeling very much like a clay pigeon. Merlini, at my side now, leveled his light. There was a small click as he pushed the button.

But no answering beam of light shot forth. The flash was dead.

“Somebody,” I heard him growl, “has thought of every th—”

Somewhere in the darkness ahead a doorknob rattled, a door slammed, and a faint ghostly glimmer of white moved. The crash of the gun came once again, louder this time, streaking the dark with flame.

And then at last we got light. Behind us, from the opposite end of the corridor, footsteps pounded up the back stairs and then rushed toward us behind the round bobbing eye of a pocket flash.

Galt’s voice cried, “What the hell—”

But we had no attention for him. Merlini and I were racing in the direction the ghost had gone toward the white night-robed figure that faced an open bedroom door at the hall’s end.

It was Mrs. Wolff, and the gun in her hand pointed in at the open door and spurted noise and name once again as we plunged toward her.

I grabbed her arm, twisted the gun from her grasp, and faced the doorway.

Galt’s flash sent a hesitant beam of light in through the dark.

The white cone of light moved swiftly, its circle slanting across the walls. Distorted shadows sprang up in its path behind bed, dressing-table, and chairs, shifted crazily and were swallowed again by the larger darkness that filled the room.

But we saw no trace of what we hunted.

Then my light moved across the two doors in the wall at my left. I moved in through the thick, acrid smell of cordite, my hand tense on the butt of my gun. I pulled the first door open and found a closetful of dresses on hangers. Behind me someone clicked the wall switch and the room filled with a soft-rose glow from shaded lamps. I stepped into the closet and pushed the dresses aside. There was no one there.

Merlini reached the second door, turned the knob and pulled. The door was locked and the key was in the keyhole on this side. I turned to face the windows. There were two, both closed. One was directly opposite me beyond the bed, the other in the side wall at my left. Three of the latter’s leaded panes had been pierced by neat round holes that were centered in spidery webs of radiating cracks. Two more bullets had bored their way into the cream-colored plaster of the wall a yard or so to the left, and a sixth had smashed through a framed Laurencin water color. Fragments of glass and plaster littered the floor beneath.

The bed was a low modern affair set so close to the floor that nothing more than a ghost, and a thin one at that, could possibly have crawled beneath. But I stepped forward, dropped to my hands and knees and looked just the same. I found nothing. There was no other possible hiding place within the room.

“Dead-end street,” I announced, glancing up at Merlini. “Where do we go from here?”

He looked at Galt. “The alarm guards those windows too?”

Galt nodded. “Yes.”

Merlini indicated the locked door. “And this goes where?”

“Connecting bath through into Wolffs’ room and that opens out into the hall again. All the rooms this side of the main stairs do that. There’s no other exit. You won’t find a damned thing. This is exactly what happened this morning.”

“And we got here within seconds,” Merlini said, making it still worse. “There was no time for anyone to go through into the bathroom and lock the door after them from the wrong side with any key-and-string hocus-pocus. But we’ll play safe and look just the same.” He tossed the useless flash he carried onto the bed, took Galt’s, and went back out into the hall. The sound of voices and running feet came from the stairway.

Merlini turned his light in that direction. “Phillips,” he ordered, “stay there and watch those stairs. Dunning, do something about some light. Wolff—”

But I didn’t hear the rest. I was staring at the dark square of the window that held the bullet holes. In the lowest pane just above the sill a dim shape had materialized in the darkness outside — the white blur of a man’s face.

I had seen it and stopped halfway in the act of rising to my feet. Now my right arm moved upward under some automatic compulsion of its own, the gun it held aiming at the window. My finger began to squeeze the trigger.

The face jerked swiftly down out of sight.

“Got him!” I shouted. “In here. Hurry!”

I threw myself forward across the room.

The window was unlocked. I pulled it open and leaned forward across the sill, gun ready.

Then everything happened at once. The alarm bell burst into life, and a hand shot up, clamped around my wrist and twisted it with a sudden jerk that started me out in a nose dive over the edge.

I dropped quickly, doubling hingelike and grabbing frantically for a hold with my left hand. The impact of the window ledge against my middle left me gasping. I tried to dig holes in the carpet with my toes.

The man who held my wrist was standing on the upper latticework of a rose trellis that ascended the side of the house almost to the window.

His voice, close beside my ear, ordered, “Drop that gun!”

Pain stabbed up along my arm as he twisted it again violently. The gun fell from my fingers and I started slipping forward again. The marines arrived in the nick of time. Someone threw himself against my legs from behind and hung on grimly. A flashlight beam shot down into my opponent’s face.

It was the chauffeur, Leonard.

“Somebody haul him up,” he growled, “before this damned trellis pulls loose and we both—” Then he saw Merlini. “Say, who the hell—”

Galt’s voice cut in. “Leonard! What are you doing outside this window?”

“I was on guard. Wolff’s orders. And when this guy starts shooting the joint up—”

“Just where were you,” Merlini demanded, “when you first heard the shots?”

“Right here at the corner of the house. I—”

“Hey, for the luvva Mike,” I protested weakly. “Can’t we hold the inquisition somewhere else? I’m coming apart in the middle.”

Leonard recognized my voice. “Oh,” he growled, “so you’re the guy who does the ghost imitations — the guy who conked me this morning!”

He sounded as if he wanted to even the score then and there. But Merlini explained quickly. “He didn’t do the shooting you heard. Unhand him so we can haul him up. And you come along, too.”

Merlini and Galt pulled me up. Leonard, still eyeing me doubtfully, threw a leg over the sill and came in.

Merlini said, “Galt, go shut off that bell and reset the alarm. Quickly!” He turned to the chauffeur. “Let’s have it. What happened out there?”

Leonard scowled, looking around at the damage the bullets had caused. An electric torch projected from the side pocket of his uniform coat and there was a long strip of adhesive on his head just behind his right ear. He looked doubtfully at Merlini.

“And just who are you?”

Wolff’s voice came from the hall. “It’s all right, Leonard. Answer him. What happened outside?”

“Nothing, sir. I was just coming around the corner of the house when somebody started to lay down a barrage. I jumped for the trellis and started up. Then the shots began smacking into the window just above my head and I stood pat. After the shooting stopped, a light came on in here and I eased up for a look. I see this guy crouching on the floor by the bed with a gun in his hand. And, when he starts to aim at me, I—”

Merlini crossed to the other window, examined its latch and said, “Locked. And if Leonard insists that no one could have shinnied down that trellis past him—”

“They certainly couldn’t.” Leonard scowled. “Besides, with that burglar alarm working, how could anyone—”

“It doesn’t look very practical, does it?” Merlini said somewhat glumly. “One door, locked on the inside. Burglar alarm on the windows and a witness just outside the single unlocked one. It’s not bad.”

“And,” I growled, massaging my sore arm, “it’s not good either.”

Dudley Wolff, in the doorway, turned nervously as light flooded the dark hallway behind him at last. Downstairs Galt turned off the alarm bell.

I followed Merlini to the door and saw Dunning climb down from the chair on which he had been standing. In the ceiling socket above, a photoflood bulb shone brightly.

“Loose in the socket?” Merlini asked.

Dunning nodded.

Standing in the doorway, I surveyed the hall. The door to Wolff’s room was directly opposite. There was another in the same wall a few feet to the left. Mrs. Wolff stood backed against it rigidly, Kathryn at her side. There was a third door beyond and across from this, near the head of the stairs where Phillips stood, one hand on the balcony rail. Galt joined him in a moment from below.

Anne stared at her husband as he crossed to her and took her arm.

“What was it? What did you see?” Wolff’s voice didn’t roar now. It was thin and shaky. It almost sounded as though he didn’t really want the answer to the question he asked.

Anne’s voice was a flat dull monotone, little more than a whisper. “I had just gone to bed when I heard the shot outside. I reached for the reading lamp above the bed, and then, before I could find it, I heard something in the hall outside my door. And the doorknob turned.” Her voice faltered. She stared at the door. “I heard the door open—”

“Yes?” Wolff prompted. His fingers were tight on her arm.

“Then the footsteps ran in through the dark, and — and I saw—”

Wolff cut in. “What we saw this morning on the stairs?”

She nodded. “Yes. It moved toward the window. I can’t remember picking up the gun from the bedside table, but I suddenly had it in my hand. I fired. I–I think I cried out. I fired again and again. The figure moved as though the shots made no difference. It reached the window. I fired again, and then — then I was running for the hall. Dudley, I’m afraid. I don’t want to stay in this house any longer. What I saw is—”

Wolff shook her arm, tightening his grasp. “That’s enough, Anne,” he said quickly.

And then, as he spoke, the rigid tension of her body relaxed. She swayed unsteadily; her eyes closed. Wolff put his arm around her.

“Guest room!” he said. “Quick!”

Galt, who was nearest, turned to the door at the head of the stairs and put his hand on the knob. Merlini called, “Wait!” and jumped toward him.

“Don’t,” he warned, “go barging into rooms that way without looking. Not as long as that trap gun is still missing.”

He turned the knob himself, pushed the door in, and examined the interior with the pocket flash. Then he said, “All right. Where’s the switch?”

Galt readied around the door jamb and snapped it. Merlini stepped in. Wolff put an arm under Anne’s knees, lifted her, and followed. Inside I heard a closet door open and close. Then Merlini’s voice. “Come in. There’s nothing here.”

Kay followed her father in. Merlini came out and back toward me. He stopped at the door against which Mrs. Wolff had been standing and tried the knob. It was locked.

“What’s in here?”

“Mr. Wolff’s study,” Dunning answered.

“Does it connect with his bedroom?”

“No.”

Merlini moved toward Wolff’s door. “Ross,” he said. “Keep an eye on that locked bathroom door and let me through when I knock.”

He pushed Wolff’s door open, examined the room beyond with his flash, then felt for and found the light switch. When he returned to Mrs. Wolff’s room through the bath a few moments later he reported, “Nothing. Not even a mouse.”

Francis Galt joined us. His eyes moved warily about the room and then rested on Merlini. “Well,” he asked slowly, “are you satisfied now?”

Merlini nodded. “Yes, satisfied that there’s monkey business afoot.”

Galt thought that over. Then he asked, “Why? Just on general principles? Or can you prove it?”

“Let me ask you one. You tested the photoflood bulb after putting it in the ceiling socket in the hall?”

“Yes. I did.”

Merlini picked up the electric torch he had dropped on the bed. “And this flashlight which I took from your suitcase. Was it in working order last time you tried it?”

Galt nodded, frowning. “It was.”

“It wasn’t much help when I needed it. Look.” Merlini pressed the button, then unscrewed the cap at the end and let the batteries slide out into his hand. One of them, had been inserted the wrong way around. Merlini glanced at Galt and, without saying anything, reversed the battery and replaced it. This time the torch lighted.

“Ghosts don’t like light. I know that. But when they unscrew bulbs and tamper with flashlights—”

Galt was obviously worried. “I’ll admit I don’t like that,” he said. “But there’s something else I like even less. If you’re going to insist that what you saw at the head of those stairs was a three-dimensional flesh-and-blood person, you’re going to have to explain how he could have run into this room and then, in the space of three or four seconds, vanished into thin air. I don’t think you can do it. I know how your stage illusions are done — your vanishing girls, your trunk- and coffin-escapes. Any competent psychic investigator has to know that sort of thing. None of those answers fit.”

“Are you sure?” Merlini said. He took his half dollar from his pocket and flipped it once in the air. Then he held it by the extreme edge between thumb and forefinger. “Suppose we let this coin represent the phantom.” He laid it carefully on the palm of his left hand and slowly closed his fingers over it. “My closed fist is the locked room. There’s nothing astral about the coin. It’s good solid metal, and yet—”

His fingers opened slowly. His hand was empty. I glanced quickly at his other hand. That was empty too.

“The fact,” he continued, “that the coin escapes invisibly is no proof that its solid matter dematerialized in some occult manner. Not when there is a much simpler explanation. Not when—”

Wolff’s voice came from the doorway behind us. “It was done like that, was it?” He sounded skeptical. The color of the liquid in the tall glass he held in his hand indicated that little if any soda water had been added to the whisky it contained.

Merlini said, “Yes, that might be one way.”

“One way?” Galt exclaimed. “You don’t mean that there’s more than one?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s what we’ve got to find out. I don’t suppose there are any trap doors or sliding panels in this room?”

Wolff was positive on that point. “No. There are not. I built this house. I know.”

Galt shook his head. “You can forget that. It’s no magician’s cabinet. It’s an ordinary room with no trickery in its construction whatever. I went over every inch when I searched it this morning.”

“I just thought I’d ask,” Merlini said. “I didn’t think there would be. But there are more ways than one to skin a cat, or to disappear. There was no trap door in my hand either. Galt, I saw fingerprinting equipment in that suitcase of yours downstairs. I brought some too, but yours is handier. Would you get it?”

“Yes. I was intending to.”

“Good. Send Dunning up with it, and then take a look at that camera of yours.”

“At the camera?”

“Yes. I want to know if our ghost was solid enough to make an impression on the plate. Ross snapped the shutter just before our subject ducked. There might be a picture — unless someone has tampered with the camera too.”

This news interested Galt. He went out the door and down the hall on the double-quick.

“And,” Merlini added, addressing Wolff, “we need a good thorough search of this house. Top to bottom. Leonard and Harte could—”

“Why that?” Wolff cut in. “Mrs. Wolff saw it here in this room. You’ve searched, There’s no way out.”

“Those guns are still missing.”

Wolff scowled. “Yes.” He hesitated a moment. “All right, Leonard, do as he says.”

Merlini turned to me. “Make it quick — but thorough. And don’t go barging into any dark rooms without taking a good look first, not as long as that trap gun is still missing. Better take this.” He gave me Galt’s torch. “Give the place a quick once-over to find out if there’s anyone in the house who shouldn’t be. Then take another look with a fine-toothed comb for those guns.”

I nodded and Leonard and I started out just as Dunning arrived carrying Galt’s fingerprint roller, ink, cards, and an iodine fumer.

I heard him report, “Mr. Galt says that the camera seems to be in good order and that he’s developing the film. He’s fixing up an impromptu darkroom in a bathroom downstairs.”

Leonard and I began our search, but we hit a snag right at the start. Since Merlini had already examined Wolff’s room and the guest room where Anne had been taken, I decided that the next room needing attention was the one other that opened on the hallway this side of the stairs — Wolff’s study.

I went to the head of the stairs and called Phillips.

“I’d like the key to the study, please,” I told him. “Mr. Wolff has asked us to look for those missing guns.”

Phillips seemed surprised. “Did he tell you to look in the study?”

“He said look everywhere.”

“You’ll have to ask him for that key. He hasn’t let anyone go in that room for the past week, not even to clean it.”

I stared at the man, wondering if he knew just how big an applecart he had just tipped over.

“Didn’t Galt search it this morning when he was hunting the ghost?”

“No. He wanted to, but Mr. Wolff refused flatly.”

“Well,” I said. “Just imagine that.” Superman himself couldn’t have backtracked to the bedroom any faster than I did.

As I burst in, Merlini was telling Wolff, “Yes, I think you do know who the ghost is, or, if you must have it that way — was. That’s why you’ve got the wind up so badly. That’s why—” He turned to me. “Find something?”

“It looks promising.” I held my hand out toward Wolff. “May I have the key to the study?”

Wolff looked as if he had been expecting that question, and as if he didn’t care for it or me. “I don’t think it will be necessary to search that room,” he said heavily.

I had given up trying to dope out a technique for handling Wolff. So I simply said, “No? Why not? What have you got in there? Skeletons in the closet?”

Wolff wasn’t accustomed to back talk. His jaw tightened and he took a step toward me.

Merlini cut in quickly, “You’re talking about the locked room just across the hall?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am. And what’s more, Phillips says Galt wasn’t allowed to examine it after the ghost did his vanishing act this morning.”

Merlini turned to Wolff. “I thought you wanted this ghost laid?”

“I do. But you won’t find anything in the study. No one has been in that room for the last week. You can forget about it.”

“Locked doors don’t seem to bother this ghost much.”

“I know. If he could go through the locked door of the study, he could just as easily leave the house. You wouldn’t find him there now.”

“Ghostly behavior is difficult to predict. I want a look.”

“Sorry. But you can’t. That’s final.” It was quite obvious that Wolff meant just what he said.

I sat down. “It we can’t take a look at that room, there’s not much point in searching the rest of the house.”

Wolff said, “Suit yourself.” He evaded further argument by taking the empty glass he held across to his room for a refill.

Merlini looked at Dunning. “I suppose it would be asking too much to inquire of you what this is all about.”

Dunning looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” he said.

I felt sure that he was lying, and Merlini’s look said that he did too. But he let it lay. He turned to me again. “Go look for those guns. Never mind the study. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I grumbled. “Some day I’m going to get myself elected D.A. and make you do the dirty work.” But I did as he asked. Leonard and I spent the next hour poking and prying. We went over the place from attic to wine cellar. We found no ghost and no guns, nothing but a cook and a serving maid in the kitchen, both of whom were on the verge of leaving. Phillips was trying to dissuade them.

“I don’t mind ghosts,” the cook was saying. “I don’t believe in ’em. But when the mistress starts shooting the place up—”

I didn’t blame her much. I could think of places I’d rather be, too.

As we started back to file our report, Galt came out of his bathroom and hurried up the stairs carrying a dripping photographic film. He seemed excited.

I caught up with him by the bedroom door. “Any luck?” I asked.

“Yes. Plenty.”

We went in. Wolff was watching Merlini take Dunning’s fingerprints.

Galt crossed to the nearest floor lamp and lifted off the shade. “Merlini,” he said, “after you’ve explained the vanishing trick, here’s a little something else you can go to work on.”

We all crowded around as he held the film up against the light.

The ghost was there right enough, and much more plainly visible than he had appeared to our eyes. The flash bulb had picked out details that had been hidden by the dark — the outline of the body beneath the face and the dark overcoat he wore. One hand was outstretched, pointing down toward the camera. And the reversal of values in the negative made him appear more ghostly than ever, a white figure with dark face and hands — an Al Jolson ghost in a shroud.

But it wasn’t funny, not when I saw what had excited Galt. The flash had caught something else that the darkness had concealed before, something that made the ghost’s sudden disappearance much more understandable. The background behind him, the baseboard and the pattern of the wallpaper on the corridor wall, showed clearly through his body. Our ghost was, as all good ghosts should be, transparent!

Ordinarily the photo wouldn’t have impressed me at all. Anyone who has ever seen a motion picture knows very well that the camera can tell far better lies than anything Ananias ever dreamed up. But, coming just when it did, the picture was — well, disconcerting.

I don’t know whether Merlini felt the same way, but in any event he wasn’t admitting it for the record. “Our astral friend,” he said, “seems to be suffering from an advanced case of malnutrition.”

He was the only one who even pretended to take it lightly. Dudley Wolff stared at the negative as though it were an angry bushmaster in the act of striking. Dunning scowled at it darkly with the nervous uncertain manner that was beginning to be a habit with him. The expression on Galt’s face was curiously mixed. He seemed pleased and excited over obtaining such a lulu of a spirit photo, and, at the same time, worried and annoyed.

Merlini, noticing this, asked, “Something wrong, Galt?”

The man nodded. “Yes, dammit, you know there is. This is the best spirit photo I’ve obtained in twenty years of trying. I know positively that it can’t be anything but genuine. And now—” He scowled again at the negative, then added, “Let me ask you just one thing. Do you think I’m a complete idiot?”

Merlini shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary.”

“Thanks. Then perhaps you’ll believe that, if I had expected or known that the result was going to be anything like this, I wouldn’t have gone into the darkroom and developed this plate all by myself. Perhaps you’ll admit that I’d have had you and Wolff right there and insisted that you oversee every step of the operation.”

“Yes,” Merlini nodded. “That sounds likely. Your laxness in that respect appears to give you a clean bill of health. Barring a very fancy double bluff, it hardly looks as though you were responsible for what is on the plate. But any such train of logic is at the very best only negative evidence of the authenticity of the picture. It certainly won’t win any prize money from the American Scientist committee. How sure are you that no one monkeyed with that plate before you loaded it in the camera? How do you know it might not have been switched for another plate later? The camera hasn’t been under guard all the time?”

“I’m positive there can’t have been any sleight of hand,” Galt said with exasperation. “But I can’t prove it to anyone else. The plate hasn’t been out of my possession since I bought it this afternoon. And no exchange was possible because I marked it for identification. That’s routine. I always do. I’m satisfied. But you won’t accept it on faith.” He eyed the negative with a curious look. “And yet—”

“And yet what?” Merlini asked.

“And yet,” Galt said slowly, “in order to avoid losing that prize money you’ll have to duplicate this photo. And something tells me that you may get yourself a headache trying to do that.”

Merlini gave Galt a sharp look, took the negative from him, held it before the light, and examined it closely. “I’m afraid I don’t see the difficulty,” he said. “Why do you say that?”

Whatever it was Galt had up his sleeve, he was keeping it there for the moment. He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. I want to check something first, just to be sure. But if I’m right, I warn you, you’re in for an unpleasant surprise.”

Merlini scowled at the picture again, obviously puzzled.

Then Wolff stepped up to bat. “I don’t know what Galt means,” he said. “But he’s right. You can’t possibly duplicate that picture. And I will tell you why. You might dress someone up to look like that man, put him at the head of the stairs, and take a double exposure so that the background would show through his body. But that wouldn’t be an exact duplication.”

“I’d have to find this same man and have him pose. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. And that’s impossible. That’s what proves this photo to be genuine. It can’t be anything else!”

Merlini faced him. “So, we come to it at last, do we? You’re finally going to admit that you do know who the ghost is. I couldn’t get him to pose for me because he’s dead and buried. Is that it?”

Wolff nodded hopelessly. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Well, go on. Who was he? What makes you so sure he’s dead? What proof do you have?”

Wolff acted scared to death, yet he was as obstinate and unyielding as ever. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t,” Merlini snapped. “Or won’t.”

“Whichever you like. I’ve said all I’m going to. You can take it or leave it. I know the photo has to be genuine. I don’t give a damn what you think.”

That seemed to settle that, but Merlini kept after him. “You know when he died? And how?”

Wolff just barely nodded. Something had gone wrong with his voice. “Yes,” he whispered.

“And you’re convinced that the figure we saw on those stairs, that the image in this photo is so like the dead man that no one could have impersonated him?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And,” Galt objected, “you can’t even suggest any such theory until you’ve explained how an impersonator could have escaped from this room leaving it the way we found it. When you’ve done that—”

“Perhaps,” Merlini said calmly, “I’d better save time and do it now. If I give you a good practical explanation, will you admit—”

“Maybe,” Galt said. “But I’ll hear it first. And skip your sleight-of-hand coin-trick analogies. It’ll have to be much better than that.”

“All right.” Merlini pointed at the bathroom door. “Close that, Galt, lock it, and leave it just as we found it. Dunning, go downstairs and stand guard at the burglar-alarm control. Make sure that it’s operating and see that no one touches it.”

Dunning looked questioningly at Wolff. The latter regarded Merlini intently for a moment, scowling. Then he nodded irritably. “All right, Dunning. Do it.”

The secretary went out. Merlini followed him as far as the door. “And,” he added, “the rest of you come out here.”

Galt turned the key of the bathroom door, rattled the knob, turned about, and cast a worried look around the room. Then he moved toward the door. Wolff and I followed.

When we were all out in the hall, Merlini said, “You’ll admit that I’m not a semitransparent spook, won’t you?”

They nodded, glumly as though they rather wished he were.

Wolff said, “Get on with it.”

Merlini called, “Dunning, are you set?”

The secretary’s voice answered, “Yes. The alarm is on.”

“Good.” Merlini stepped back within the room as though entering a magician’s cabinet and gave us his good-matured but exasperating professional smile. “Give me thirty seconds by your watches. When you come in, I shall try not to be here.” He started to close the door. “The fourth-dimension express is now leaving on track six for the River Styx, Purgatory, Hell, and points south. I hope this will prove that ghosts are not always what they seem, that stone walls do not a prison make, and that jumping at conclusions is a risky form of mental exercise. Ready. Set. Go!”

The door slammed.

I spent the next thirty seconds thinking fast, furiously, and in circles. Either Foxy Grandpa really had doped out a method of exiting from that damned room, or else it was a fancy bit of leg-pulling aimed at getting us out of the way while he put over a fast one. He was quite capable of either. I expected the worst. Wolff and Galt looked as if they did too.

Galt didn’t give Merlini any more rope than he’d asked for. He pushed the door in right on the dot. Then he swore fervently. The burglar alarm hadn’t emitted a single solitary peep. The bathroom door was still locked, its key on the inside. The clothes closet was empty.

And Merlini had vanished without leaving as much as a puff of smoke or the faintest odor of brimstone behind.

Galt walked to the center of the room, turned around twice, swore again heavily, and looked at Wolff. I had the privilege, for once, of seeing the latter at a complete loss. The trouble was that I was in the same fix.

I called, “Come out, come out, wherever you are! They’re convinced. So am I. We give up.” I didn’t get as much as an echo for an answer. Merlini had not only gone, it looked as if he were going to stay that way.

Galt didn’t take it lying down. He was mad. He searched the bedroom, the bathroom, Wolff’s room, and then Anne’s room again. He did everything but look under the ash trays and behind the pictures on the wall. He even began to doubt his previously stated opinion as to secret exits in the woodwork and had actually started tapping the floor when, at last, we heard the magician’s voice again.

It said, “All right, Dunning. You’re relieved.” And it came from the front hall downstairs!

When he joined us, after a moment, in the bedroom, I said, “So, it was a trap door after all.”

He grinned. “No, Ross. Cross my heart. No trap doors.” He looked at Wolff and Galt. “Well, what price ghost now? Will you admit that maybe our mysterious visitor doesn’t need to assay one hundred percent ectoplasm?”

Galt growled. “Never mind the prologue. Let’s have it.”

Merlini shook his head. “Not so fast. The escape from this room is a good trick. My business is selling tricks. I’m afraid I’ll have to make a charge.” He was looking at Wolff.

The latter grunted. “I’ll be damned! All right. What do you want?”

“Information. I want to know who this alleged ghost pretends to be, when he died, and how. I want to examine that study, and I want you to report the unexplained absence of your boatkeeper to the police.”

Wolff glared at him, silent for a long moment. Then he snapped, “That’s all, is it?”

“For the moment, yes. Is it a deal?”

There was nothing ambiguous about Wolff’s answer. He said, “No!” explosively.

I didn’t like the way things were shaping up at all. When Dudley Wolff reacted that way blasting powder wouldn’t budge him. Unless Merlini came down off his high horse we were stymied.

But he only grew more reckless. “Wolff,” he said, “you’ve been investigating psychic phenomena and you’ve picked up a red-hot poker. I think I can help you. But not unless I get some co-operation.”

Wolff went into his steam-roller act. “How,” he demanded thunderously, “did you get out of this room?”

Merlini stood pat. “I’m a ghost. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it as long as you keep saying no. Come on, Ross. We’re leaving.”

He turned on his heel and started out. I opened my mouth to protest. But he threw me a wink as he turned and, although I knew it wasn’t going to work, there was little I could do but follow his lead. Galt started to give Wolff an argument as we left, but the latter cut him off angrily.

Merlini walked slowly down the hall, giving Wolff a chance to change his mind. Wolff didn’t take it. Instead, he called down and told Phillips to give us our hats and coats.

“This,” I complained feelingly as the door closed behind us, “is just swell! God knows what will happen in there next. And you have to get us tossed out on our ears! Don’t you know that Dudley Wolff is six times as stubborn as an army mule, that trying to force him to do something is decidedly not the way to handle him, that—”

“Yes, I know all that,” Merlini said. “But I’ve developed a ‘How to Handle Dudley Wolff’ system. I thought it worked rather well.”

“Oh you do, do you? I suppose you wanted to get us thrown out.”

“That was the general idea. I had to avoid telling Wolff how I got out of that room for one thing. There wasn’t a lot more we could do there anyway. We’ve got to find out what he’s holding back. We can’t do it under his eagle eye. But if he thinks we’ve gone, if we drive off noisily in the car, and then return on the q.t.—”

I didn’t get any of this. I said so. “Maybe I’m crazy, but what kind of an investigation can we carry on when we’re locked out?”

Merlini grinned. “You forget, Ross. I’m a magician. Put your faith in the Magic Shop slogan: Nothing Is Impossible. Stop fussing, and get that car going.”

“Okay. But whatever it is you’ve got up your sleeve, it had better be good”

I started the car, racing the motor a bit as we moved off so that Wolff could hear it. Two or three hundred yards from the house I turned off the drive at Merlini’s direction and parked under the trees. We left the car there and made our way cautiously back toward the house, keeping a weather eye peeled for Leonard in case he had resumed his patrol. We found a place from which we could watch the house without being seen and settled down to wait.

Merlini tried, mysteriously, to parry all my questions, but I finally wore him down. “Listen,” I objected, “if you don’t tell me how you managed that escape act I’ll — I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but it will be drastic. I’m in the mood for an ax murder.”

“How do you think it was done?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I only know that when you did it, you ruined a perfectly lovely disappearing ghost theory that I had just finished piecing together. It even explains the mystery of the study.”

“It must have been a honey if it did that. What do you think is in the study?”

“A set of false whiskers and a dark overcoat. I suspect Wolff is right about our ghostly friend being a dead one. That’s why it gives him the willies. Therefore, Dudley Wolff to the contrary, someone has been masquerading. And, with that burglar alarm operating, it has to be someone in the house. You, Wolff, Kay, and I were together when His Nibs appeared. That lets us out. Galt, Dunning, and Phillips are all minus alibis, since they were all separately searching each other’s rooms.

“But they were all in the wrong end of the house. That leaves Mrs. Wolff. There’s no real evidence to back up her story that someone or something came in through the locked door into her room. In fact, the whole yarn sounds distinctly phony. She could have put on the ghost act at the head of the stairs, tossed her costume into the study in passing, and created that rumpus in her room as misdirection. That’s why Dudley won’t open up the study. He’s covering her. And it explains the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t haunt. Or it did up until you spoiled it by proving that there’s some sort of secret exit out or that room after all.

Merlini didn’t like it. “Ross, you’ve got a comic-magazine mind. She’d have to be a wizard at make-up and a lightning-change artist. She couldn’t shed her disguise as quickly as all that. You forget that she was in Florida last week when the poltergeist phenomena occurred, and that this morning she was with the others in the hall downstairs when the ghost appeared on the landing. Also, it happens that there is evidence that someone or something else was in her room. I found a couple of nice clear thumbprints on the inside of one pane of that unlocked window above the trellis. They’re not hers.”

I gave that some thought. “The ghost’s appearance this morning gives everybody an out except Galt and Leonard. And Galt’s appearance this morning just after the ghost disappeared was almost too pat. Suppose he put on the disguise and slipped up those back stairs. We didn’t see which direction the ghost came from. Then, when Wolff takes a pot shot at him, he high-tails it down the hall and into Mrs. Wolff’s room. He ducks her barrage, vanishes according to your recipe, whatever that is, and reappears—” I stalled.

Merlini said, “What’s wrong?”

“He reappeared on that back stairs too quickly. Or can you manage that by your vanishing method too?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. You see I went out the window and down the trellis!”

I groaned. “Do you mean that Wolff’s pet burglar alarm is a pushover, that our nicely isolated house has been wide open all this time to anyone who happened to come along?”

“Well not exactly, but it’s not infallible. The alarm is designed to trip up the unsuspecting prowler and would probably serve that purpose very well. But when one knows that it’s there and knows how it operates, getting past it isn’t too hard. I had Galt’s flashlight and I simply centered it on the photoelectric cell while I crossed the sill. As long as the cell gets light, black or white, the alarm is a sleeping dog.”

“So,” I said, “Friend Leonard again. He had a Hash. And you sent him along with me to hunt the ghost!”

“I wanted him out of the way while I snooped. I rather thought he had possibilities. After I climbed down the trellis, I picked the lock on the garage door. It’s on the same side of the house, basement floor. I edged in past the electric eye again and I found Leonard’s room. I gave it a quick once-over without turning up anything suspicious. And then, not having asked him for a sample of his prints because I didn’t want him to know I had doubts about his alibi, I looked for some. I found several on his shaving mirror. The pattern of the print on the window classes as a twin loop. But Leonard’s is a whorl.”

“So,” I said dizzily, “am I. You checked all the others — Wolff, Dunning, Phillips, Galt, Kay?”

“I did. Results negative all around.”

“Then unless Leonard’s lying when he swears no one shinnied down out of that window, there must be still another way out of that room!”

“It looks like it,” Merlini said unhappily. “Either that or there are ghosts and Wolff collects the ten grand. That’s why I couldn’t tell them I had escaped by the window. The moment we checked Leonard’s prints and cleared him, his evidence that no one left by the window throws my vanishing explanation out of court and closes that room up again as tight as a coffin. I figured that Dudley might sleep better if he didn’t know that. And I need time to dope out another exit before I have to admit that the one I used doesn’t fill the bill.”

“You might have managed it,” I objected, “so that we didn’t have to spend the night camping out in the wild wet woods with pneumonia lurking behind every tree.”

“Concentrate on our problem then. Emulate the lamas of Tibet who sit naked in the icy snows of the Himalayas and warm themselves by the power of thought alone.”

“It won’t work. When I think of what may happen in that house, I get cold chills. I wish I knew where those guns are.”

“Oh,” Merlini said, “that reminds me. Take this. It might come in handy.”

He made a William S. Hart gesture, brought out a revolver in each hand, and gave one to me.

“At this rate,” I said, “it won’t be long before the Wolff gun room resembles Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”

“I didn’t take these from the gun room. Yours is the one Mrs. Wolff had, the one you dropped out the window when Leonard grabbed you. I salvaged it in passing. And this other is Dudley’s. As soon as the house has settled down for the night, we’re going back in. I thought it might be safer to burglarize a house whose owner is unarmed, so I picked his pocket before we left.”

I released the barrel latch of Anne’s gun and broke it open. The six chambers all held dead soldiers. “I can’t bring down any ghosts with this,” I protested. “You would give me the unloaded one.”

“Mine’s going to be unloaded too,” he replied, ejecting the cartridges. “Then, if we’re apprehended, we won’t have to take the rap for anything more than second-degree burglary. It may save us as much as fifteen years apiece in Sing Sing. Unless, of course, they get you for life on account of prior convictions.”

“They will some day, if I continue to associate with you. What are we going to look for in the house beside another exit from the bedroom?”

“We’re going to investigate Bluebeard’s study.”

The lights in the house went out after a while, all but the one in Wolff’s room. After a half-hour’s cold, uncomfortable wait, during which I decided that burglary wasn’t my calling, Merlini said, “If we wait until he douses that light we may be here all night. In his state of mind he doesn’t like the dark. He may not even try to sleep. We’ll have to chance it.”

We had seen Leonard make the rounds several times at fifteen-minute intervals. We waited until just after he had finished a tour of inspection and then approached the house.

“Up the trellis again,” Merlini said. “I left the window unlatched. I’ll go first and put the hex on the evil eye. You follow along pronto. I don’t want to use the flash any more than necessary.”

Merlini went up and in without accident. I followed. When I reached the sill, he turned his light again on the depression in the window frame where the photoelectric cell kept its vigil. We proceeded from there without using the light at all.

If the dark hall beyond the bedroom had been black before, it was Stygian now. We felt our way slowly and cautiously toward the study door.

Merlini flicked the light on for a brief moment, keeping the lens covered with his fingers so that only a few dim rays came through. He examined the lock.

“This may take a while,” he whispered. “It’s a Yale-type pin tumbler.” He turned the torch off and gave it to me. “Find the chair Dunning used. Unscrew that ceiling light again so we’ll have time for a getaway if Wolff catches wise. But go easy with that light.”

“Okay, Butch, but woik fast. I got a noivous temperament.”

I put the ceiling light out of commission and then felt my way back along the wall to the door where Merlini was making small mouselike noises with his lockpick.

“Give me a spot of light,” he whispered. “Okay, that’s enough. One of these pins keeps slipping on me.”

I had seen him do this sort of thing often enough to have some idea of the technique employed. He had inserted a tension tool in the lower part of the keyway and was applying a turning pressure on the lock cylinder. Then, with a slender curved pick made from a hacksaw blade, he was probing delicately and patiently raising one pin after another in an attempt to get them all into line, an operation that the irregular edge of a key does in one motion. It was a ticklish business under any conditions. Attempted in total darkness in a house illegally entered, it was also nerve-racking. I began to understand why so many thieves become narcotic addicts.

After ten or a dozen of the longest minutes I’ve ever experienced, I finally heard the metallic click which meant that the lock cylinder had turned and the bolt moved over. Merlini gave a low whistle of relief. Simultaneously, from somewhere belowstairs, came the furtive, cautious tread of footsteps!

I felt Merlini’s hand grip my arm. We stood for a long moment, motionless and silent. Then the sounds died away. I started to speak, but Merlini’s hand tightened on my arm and we waited again, endlessly. At last his whisper, so close beside my ear that I felt his breath, said, “Flash, please.”

I pushed it toward him.

“Stand pat,” he added. “If anything happens jump for the bedroom.”

He moved off toward the stairs. And I waited for another eternity in a dark void that was as lonesome as the outer reaches of interstellar space. Almost anyone, even the ghost who had appeared and vanished earlier along this same hallway, would have been welcome company.

I had just decided, impatiently, to end the interminable waiting and go in search of Merlini when I heard the sound of footsteps again.

They came, this time, from the back stairs at the hall’s far end beyond the main staircase. Then, in the arched opening of the door at their top, I saw the moving flicker of a flashlight. Its gleam gave me a momentary glimpse of Merlini’s dark figure standing motionless at the head of the main stairs. His return was impossible. He had no time. I saw him dodge quickly, down into the shadows toward the front hall.

I took a half-step toward Mrs. Wolff’s room, then stopped. That was useless. If I tried to take a powder out the window, the alarm would set the whole house on its ear. Merlini had the flashlight!

My indecision held me too long. Now even my chance of reaching the bedroom had vanished. The man on the stairs was too near. In another second his head would clear the top step, his light would find me—

I flattened instinctively back against the door, felt it move inward, and, almost without thinking, stepped backward into the study. I groped for the doorknob, twisted it so that the bolt would make no noise, and pushed the door gently home. Wolff’s orders being what they were I was safer from discovery here than in the bedroom.

Safer? Half a second later I knew that a lion’s cage would have been preferable. There was a quick rush of movement in the dark behind me. Something lunged heavily against my back. An arm hooked around my neck and squeezed nut-crackerlike, jerking my head up and back, strangling the startled cry that I had begun.

I staggered, off balance, trying to twist from the tightening grasp and face my assailant. I didn’t have a chance. Something hard and heavy struck my head, and a shattering burst of pain exploded and blotted out all else. A milky way of shifting, giddily swirling light specks danced in Surrealist confusion before my eyes and I dropped swiftly into nothing.

Falling, one faint memory lingered for a moment — the rough prickly feel of my attacker’s bearded jaw as it scraped along the side of my face!

Later, how much later I had no way of knowing, I struggled upward again and felt the chill night air against my face and a throb of pain pounding in my head. I seemed to be upside down, arms dangling, a heavy weight pressing against my thighs. Somewhere, behind the waves of pain, a warning rang and brought a swift flooding of awareness.

I was lying, for the second time that night, face down across a window sill, my body half out and within a scant inch of toppling over and down.

Reflex action jerked at the muscles of my legs and my hands tried vainly to reach the sill. I felt a constricting tightness about my ankles and, at the same instant, the grasp of two hands that gripped my legs and lifted them, tipping my body forward. The rough stone of the outer wall scraped against my face as I somersaulted out and hurtled down.

My mind raced in one last frantic burst of activity, deducing from the sudden jerk at my legs and the rushing acceleration of my downward plunge that a weight was fastened to my ankles. Then the breathtaking shock of the icy water that surged up and closed over me brought the blackout down again.

After the initial paralyzing shock, the icy stinging cold burned like liquid fire and set a thousand alarm bells clanging furiously in my brain. Escape in sleep was impossible. I had to wake.

I doubled, my knees against my chest, and strained to reach the encircling stricture that held my ankles. It was wire — electric-light cord — tied in knots that my stiff aching fingers could not possibly untangle in the few remaining seconds that were left.

I pushed with panic-stricken haste at my shoes, jerking them off, and then tore at the circle of wire, trying to shove it down over my heels. I didn’t really expect to succeed. But the tying job had apparently been hasty. There was just enough slack. One foot slipped free. And then, as my tortured lungs rebelled against the agonizing pressure, I kicked the other loose. I shot upward, the pain in my chest easing as I exhaled.

My head broke the surface just as the salty water began to rush in, and I choked, half strangled, gulping air and water. As I struggled to lift my head up above the choppy waves that rose and slapped my face perversely each time I tried to get another mouthful of air, I saw that there was light in the study window. And slowly, as I fought the water and the hampering weight of heavy winter clothing that made any real swimming impossible, I realized that the window was more distant than it should be, that the outgoing tide was carrying me away from house and shore at an alarming rate.

Frantically I kicked, lifting myself to get a halfway decent lungful of air. Then I sank down once more toward Davy Jones’s locker as I tried to twist out of the overcoat that clung as tightly and obstinately as any strait jacket.

Next time, given a choice, I’ll go overboard in a sealed coffin rather than take another chance in the completely refractory entanglement of a wet overcoat. The thing snagged once, pinioning my arms behind my back. I gave up, or thought I did. But my arms and shoulders, feeling as though they belonged to someone else, struggled desperately and finally tore loose.

I gained the surface again none too soon, and began to swim in a dazed automatic fashion. I was dimly aware that I could no longer see the lighted window, but I took a dozen strokes before the fact really penetrated. Then I turned and saw that I had been going in the wrong direction. I tried to rest a moment by floating on my back. But the effort was nearly as great as swimming. I rolled over and struggled on, heading for the black outcropping of shadow at the left of the house where a sun deck extended out above the water.

I had covered half the distance when the shots came — two sudden reports close together.

My first thought was that my attacker in the study had seen me and was trying to finish me off. But then, looking up, I saw the black crosshatched lines of the leaded panes. The study window was closed and its yellow square of light was empty.

I kept one eye on it as I swam, ready to submerge if necessary. The memory of the coldblooded piratical way someone had trussed me up and dumped me overboard made me mad. I was determined to get back and settle that score, if for no other reason.

Finally, in a last agonizing effort, I reached the porch and hung, completely done in, to an upright piling that was part of the understructure. It was high tide and I could just reach the porch edge above my head, but there was no strength left in my arms to pull my waterlogged body up. I hung on grimly, trying to regain strength enough to work my way the last dozen yards around to the shore.

But before I dared let go, someone up above threw open the study window and leaned out. The long beam of a flashlight shot down, swept across the black water, and centered full on me. I waited hopelessly for the shot I was sure would come.

Instead, a voice shouted, “Sergeant! Outside quick! There’s a man down there in the water!”

Sergeant! It sounded as though the marines might have arrived at last. I concentrated on holding fast.

A moment later footsteps pounded across the floor overhead, a light shone down on my face. Then a long arm reached down and a hand grabbed my wrist.

Merlini’s voice said, “Ross! Are you all right?”

The feeling of relief was so great that my answer, though weak, was sarcastic. “Oh s-sure,” I said. “C–C-Come on in. The water’s f-fine.”

Merlini’s voice showed relief then too. “You had me scared for a minute. And completely baffled. When you set out to put on a disappearing act of your own, you certainly go to town, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and I n-nearly stayed there. G-Get me out of here!”

The sergeant arrived then and, together, they hoisted me up. Merlini stripped off his overcoat, threw it around me, and then, one of them on each side, they hurried me toward the front door.

As we came into the light of the hall, the sergeant grunted. “Well, I’ll be—”

It was my old friend Lovejoy who had booked me on the traffic charge a week before. This time I could have kissed him.

As they rushed me up the stairs, I heard Phillips’s voice at the phone shakily demanding that Doctor Haggard come at once. And Merlini, as we passed, cut in with demands for blankets, hot-water bottles, and other first-aid measures.

Someone had fixed the light in the upper hall. Galt and Dunning were there, staring at me, and Kay, after one look, gave Dunning the same set of orders Merlini had thrown at Phillips.

Before the open door of the study stood the man whose light had found me in the water. He was a wiry, slender individual with a grim look on his face and a coldly suspicious stare in his gray eyes. His voice had the timbre of sandpaper.

“Who the hell,” he demanded, “are you?”

“Friend of mine,” Merlini answered quickly. “Explain later. We’ve got to get him—”

“Guy by the name of Harte, Lieutenant,” Lovejoy said, and then appended a summary of my previous criminal record. “I booked him for speeding just last week.”

He may have said something more; I don’t know. I was staring past the lieutenant in at the study door. The shock of my icy plunge was no worse than the one I got now. There were two bodies on the floor!

Dudley Wolff was sprawled face down in a curiously twisted attitude. A dark wet stain spread from beneath his body near his chest out on across the carpet. Beyond him, in a pale rose dressing-gown, lay Anne Wolff. The curtains at the open window swayed slightly, the only sign of movement in the room.

I looked at the lieutenant, at the hard eyes that were as icy cold as the water in the Sound outside.

“Dead?” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Yes. What do you know about it?”

“N-Nothing.” I tried hard to sound confident, but my chattering teeth destroyed that illusion completely. “I h-heard the shots. That’s all. I was busy t-trying to keep m-my head above water.”

“How’d you get out there? Why—”

Merlini interrupted. “Lieutenant. He won’t be any use as a witness if he dies of pneumonia. Play your game of twenty questions later. I’m going to—”

The lieutenant had to concede Merlini that point. He turned, threw open the door of Wolff’s bedroom, switched on the light, and said, “Okay, Sergeant. In here. Thaw him out, but stick with him.”

Lovejoy and I hurried in. Merlini tried to come too, but the lieutenant stopped him. “Not you. Phillips can help him. I want to know who you are, what you’re doing here, and how come you seem to know so damned much about lockpicking. Why—”

Then the door closed behind us. “Your b-boss,” I told the sergeant as he helped me strip off my wet clothes, “has a surprise or two c-coming his way.”

“Yeah?” he said as he discovered the revolver in my trousers, and drew it out. “Maybe he’s not the only one.”

I had the uncomfortable feeling that the sergeant had said himself a mouthful. But the verification didn’t come until later. For the next half-hour or so I was busy defrosting. After drying me off, Lovejoy and Phillips buried me in the bed beneath layers of hot-water bottles and blankets, and plied me with whisky.

The rest of the house also hummed with activity. Several times the sound of sirens outside heralded the arrival of official re-enforcements in carload lots. And shortly, a brisk, worried man who turned out to be Doctor Haggard hurried in, okayed the anti-chill treatment, made an additional suggestion or two, quickly examined the bump on my head, and concluded, “You’ll be all right. Get some sleep.”

I was tired. Every last muscle and bone in my body ached. But sleep was definitely not what I wanted most just at this point. I said so flatly, and, suspecting that Haggard had already had a look, added, “What happened in that study? I’ve got to know—”

But the Gestapo clamped down. Lovejoy shook his head at the doctor and led him toward the door. I didn’t like his attitude, the whispered conference between them, nor the careful way Lovejoy locked the door as Haggard went out. It looked damned suspicious.

“Now look here, Sergeant,” I said seriously. “Are you and the lieutenant jumping at conclusions because of that gun I had? Just what goes on? Is this my cue to call for a lawyer?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said just as seriously but not very convincingly. You heard the doctor. He said sleep. Start doing it.” He handed me another dose of the medicinal, twenty-year-old, bonded Scotch.

“Sleep! Another ten minutes of this and I’ll be as tight as a hoot owl. How can I sleep at a time like this?”

“Why not?” Lovejoy asked, trying hard to look sly. “Guilty conscience?”

That gave me an idea. “Yes,” I said. “Something like that. Get the lieutenant in here. I want to make a confession.”

It worked. His eyes popped. He turned and made for the door. “Get Flint,” he told the uniformed cop who stood outside. “He wants to talk.”

But the lieutenant, apparently up to his neck in other things, didn’t come immediately. And when he did come, if he did, I never knew it. Ten minutes later I was sound asleep. Lovejoy, as I afterward discovered, had spiked that last drink with Luminal which Haggard had supplied when I showed signs of being obstinate.

When I awoke, Merlini was shaking me and the cold gray light of dawn was beginning to glow at the windows.’

“Wake up,” he said. “Morning’s at seven — or maybe a bit earlier — and the hillside’s dew-pearled; the lark’s on the wing, and the inquisition is about to inquisit.”

Lieutenant Flint was there too, pouring himself a drink from the bottle at my bedside. Both men looked tired and unhappy. Flint, in addition, had a badly frayed temper. I suspected that he had been hearing ghost stories and not liking them. He didn’t look as if that sort of thing was his dish of tea. As I tried to shake the sleep from my eyes, he walked around the room giving it a careful once-over. He eyed the stack of steel file cabinets in the corner thoughtfully, and then went to the window overlooking the Sound. He opened it, put his head out and scowled down at the water.

I scowled too, remembering something. “Is that burglar alarm on duty at the moment?” I asked.

Flint turned. “Yeah. Why?”

“You just put your head out the window. I don’t hear any bells.

“No,” Flint said. “Wolff apparently didn’t think it was needed on the windows directly over the water.” He paused, then added slowly, “I guess he didn’t figure on a murderer making a getaway by doing a high dive out into the Sound.”

I tried to overlook that crack. “So that’s why there were no loud alarms when I put out to sea. I was wondering about that.”

Then Flint pounced like a hungry cat. “So you admit you were in the study? And you dived out the window after the shooting, and—”

I shook my head energetically. “Hold it! You’re way ahead of me. I was in the study; I’ll admit that. And I did leave by the window, but I didn’t dive out. And the shooting—”

Flint leaned above the bed like a movie district attorney. He stopped just short of shaking his finger under my nose. “If you didn’t dive out, how the hell—”

I appealed to Merlini. “Is there any way to make him sit down quietly and listen, or is his St. Vitus’s dance incurably chronic?”

“It’s chronic and epidemic,” Merlini answered. “I’m latching it myself. Will you please—”

Both men were even more upset than I had realized. Flint turned on Merlini and exploded. “Will you sit down and shut up? Okay, Harte, talk fast and make it hold water.”

“Water? Don’t mention it. I’ll have a relapse. I was in the study and I went out the window, but I didn’t dive or jump. I was thrown out with a weight tied to my ankles!”

That stopped him. I couldn’t have rocked him harder it I’d hit him on the head.

Merlini closed his eyes hopelessly. “There you are, Lieutenant,” he groaned. “The mystery of the missing andiron and light cord explained. I was afraid of this. And I have an awful premonition that Ross’s story isn’t going to help matters a bit. It’s going to make them worse!”

Flint, recovering somewhat, ignored him. “And just who,” he demanded, “threw you out?”

I reached quickly for the bottle of Scotch. This wasn’t going to be any fun — not if I told the unvarnished truth. And I didn’t see what else I could tell — not without sticking my neck out even farther than it projected already.

I looked at Merlini. “He’s heard about our haunt, I suppose?”

Merlini blinked at me and nodded. “Yes. He has. But he doesn’t care for it much. You’d better treat the subject gently, if at all.”

“It didn’t treat me gently. It tried to murder me. It knocked me out, tied me up, and threw me in the drink.”

“The ghost?” Merlini looked at me as though I were one.

“Yes. And for a frail, half-transparent, ectoplasmic wraith, he packs a hefty wallop.”

“Now look,” Flint growled in an I’ve-had-enough-of-this-nonsense tone of voice, “start at the beginning and give me one thing at a time. And without ghosts.”

“All right. I don’t think it’s a spook anyway. It’s a homicidal maniac. Merlini and I—” I stopped short and threw Merlini a quick questioning glance. I didn’t know how much he had told Flint about our burglarous entry into the house.

He saw my difficulty. “I’ve confessed all, Ross,” he said. “You do the same.”

That was a lot easier said than done. But I let Flint have it, the whole story, from the moment I backed in through the study door until Merlini and the sergeant had fished me out of the water. Flint refrained from interrupting, but I could see his questions accumulating by the dozen as I talked. When I had finished, he looked at Merlini.

“Well, you wanted to hear his story. You’ve heard it. Are you still insisting that he’s in the clear?”

“Afraid so,” Merlini said. “You see I’ve known him long enough to know that if he were the murderer, he’d have cooked up a better yarn than that one.

I growled. “That is certainly a lulu of a left-handed character reference!”

Flint said, “He is going to have to cook up a better yarn than that one.”

“Hadn’t you better check this one first?” Merlini asked. “It shouldn’t be hard. Mrs. Wolff’s evidence ought to tell us—”

I jumped. “Did you say Mrs. Wolff? Do you mean that she’s alive — that she wasn’t—”

“Yeah,” Flint said. “And maybe you’d like to make some changes in that movie scenario of yours before she blows it apart?”

I ignored him. “Merlini, tell me—”

“Anne Wolff wasn’t shot,” he explained. “She fainted. We brought her around, but the lieutenant hasn’t questioned her yet. Doctor Haggard says she’s suffering from nervous exhaustion.”

“Both bullets in Wolff?”

“Yes. One got him in the chest, the other, apparently fired after he fell, in the back. The angle of the shots indicates that the murderer was standing between him and the window. A third bullet hole in the wall above and to the left of the fireplace was apparently fired from near the door.”

“A third? But there were only two shots.”

“I know. I only heard two myself. But there was a bullet in the wall just the same. Twenty-five caliber like the ones in Wolff.”

“Now that,” I said, “is interesting. And has the lieutenant here noticed that the gun his man Friday found on me was a .38?”

“And so what?” Flint wanted to know. “Maybe you’re a two-gun man. I’ve got another version of what happened in that study. And no ghosts. You tell me what’s wrong with it. Nobody dumped you out the window. There wasn’t anybody there to do it. You were still there when Mrs. Wolff came in. And you were there when her husband arrived. Wolff had told you to stay out of the house more than once. Now, in the middle of the night, he finds you back again, in a room he’d ordered everyone to stay out of. And with his wife. That would make anybody boil over. And Dudley Wolff — well, if I tried real hard, maybe I could imagine how he’d act. We gave him a summons for double parking once and it’s a wonder the station is still standing.

“He socked you. That accounts for the bump on your head. And then you saw some red yourself and let him have it. You had plenty of reason for wanting him out of the way. You head for the door, intending to take it on the lam through the bedroom across the hall and down the trellis. But you didn’t make it. Someone in the hall outside began pounding on the study door. You were trapped. You knew that if you were found in that room you were sunk.”

I looked at Merlini. “Is he making this up as he goes along, or did he read it in Astounding Detective Tales?”

But Flint wasn’t finished. “You also realized that if you could pull a little high-class vanishing act of your own, it would leave Mrs. Wolff in a lovely jam. I think you figured that diving out a second-story window on a cold February night into ice-cold water was so much like a Grade B movie serial no one would believe it. You tossed out the andiron and light cord to make the story you’ve just told look good, and then did your high dive.” He paused briefly. “But you made one bad mistake. Maybe you know now what it was?”

I shook my head. “No. I wouldn’t even try to guess. What?”

“You forgot to leave the gun you shot Wolff with in Mrs. Wolff’s hand. As soon as it’s low tide and I fish it up off the bottom—”

“Wow!” I cried, sitting up. “Came the dawn! So that’s it! That’s why you detour all the way around Robin Hood’s barn and take a running jump at me! That’s why Anne gets a clean bill of health. There wasn’t any gun in the room!”

“Right,” Flint nodded. “No gun — and no ghost!”

I turned to Merlini. “Twenty-five caliber. Sounds like the mysteriously missing vest-pocket gun.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

“But a gun as small as that one—”

Flint shook his head. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? We took that room apart. If there was a rod there ten times as small we’d have found it.”

Merlini underscored that. “They did a very thorough job, Ross. I watched it. They found a few things that may or may not be clues. One of the two study keys was on a ring in Wolff’s pocket, the other was lying on the floor behind the desk. The cord of the desk phone appears to have been cut at some time or other and later repaired in a makeshift way. There were some small broken pieces of glass on the floor near the door which, fitted together, form a glass disc an inch and a half in diameter. There were four thumbtack holes on the top of the bookcases just to the left of the door. And, on the floor near Wolff, there were three un-fired .25 caliber cartridges and two empty shells that will probably match the bullets in the body. But there was no sign of any gun.”

“Mrs. Wolff? They searched her just as thoroughly?”

Merlini grinned and nodded. “He did. He could hardly wait to put the handcuffs on her. All he needed was the gun. When he didn’t find it, he naturally started wondering about you.”

“But,” I insisted again, “such a small gun—”

The lieutenant glared at me. “I had two men with her every damn minute until I could get a woman in to frisk her. We don’t have any lady cops. I got a female doctor. She put Mrs. Wolff to bed, and I had a look at the nightdress and robe she’d been wearing. She couldn’t have smuggled a pin out of that study. And nobody else could have copped it because nobody except my men ever got a foot inside that door. The gun left that room the same way you did — out the window. And, if you try to tell me now that Mrs. Wolff must have tossed it out, you’ll have to explain why you just said that the window was closed and that no one came near it from the time you heard the shots until I put my head out. That was a mistake too, wasn’t it?”

I groaned. “The guy who cracked that honesty is the best policy was a dope. My story happens to be the truth even if I am stuck with it. I still insist that nothing or nobody came out that window. If the gun’s not in the room now, then it must have left the same way my murderous friend with the beard did — by the door.”

The looks on both Merlini’s and Flint’s faces said very plainly that I’d gone and put my foot in it again.

“Okay, Merlini,” Flint said. “You tell him.”

Merlini took a cigarette from a package and scowled at it. I knew, since he didn’t take the trouble to produce it from thin air already lighted, that he was worried. Then he did as Flint suggested. He told me. It was plenty.

“I was the one who pounded on that study door before the reports of those two shots died away.”

He let that soak in while he struck a match and lighted his cigarette. “When I didn’t get any answer, I tried to smash the door down. All that got me was a sore shoulder, so I went to work on the lock again. And I was right there, smack in front of that door, every second until the lieutenant here arrived just as I got it open again. If any gun or, for that matter, your bearded assailant, came out that door they were a lot more than semitransparent. They must have been invisible. We’re up against the walking-through-a-brick-wall stunt again — with variations. Variations that I don’t like.”

“Invisible men!” Flint groaned. “Walking through brick walls! Do you have to begin that again?”

“You’re something of a magician yourself, Lieutenant,” I said. “Just how did you happen to wander in at just the proper moment right on cue?”

“After Wolff had bounced you and Merlini, your girl friend got to thinking it over and decided to deal a hand of her own. She phoned the station and reported that a couple of guns had been stolen.”

I turned to Merlini. “And who came up those back stairs just before I ducked into the study?”

“Phillips. He said he couldn’t sleep and decided to take a look around. He came along the hall, turned his light on the front stairs for a moment, and then went back. I had ducked into the library but, as soon as the coast was clear, I came up the stairs again. I assumed you had holed up as I’d suggested, in the bedroom. I had just reached the top of the stairs when the guest-room door opened. I ducked again. Anne Wolff came out, closed the door behind her, and started down the hall in the dark. I heard a door open and close softly. And I hope I’ll never have to live through those next few minutes again. I thought, of course, that she’d gone back to her own room and that she’d find you there, unable to escape because I had the flashlight. I sat tight, waiting for the end of the world and without the vaguest notion of how we could talk our way out of a spot like that. But nothing happened at all. The dark silence of a grave would have been bright and cheerful by comparison. Then, suddenly, I doped it out. You must have gone into the study instead.

“And then, just as I began to breathe easier, Wolff’s door opened. He left it ajar a bit and, in the light from his room, what do I see him do but make tracks for the study! There’s nothing to that yarn about a person’s hair turning white in moments of intense emotional stress. If there were, mine would be. Wolff unlocked the door and went in. The room inside was dark. He clicked the light switch. And, just as the door slammed shut, I heard him cry, ‘Anne!’ in a completely thunderstruck tone of voice. I felt the same way.

“I shook my head and did a mental somersault back to theory number one again. Since Mrs. Wolff had gone into the study, you must be in the bedroom. I decided that perhaps we had better join forces and get set to evacuate. I started down the hall. I was just easing past the study door ‘on tiptoes stealing’ when those shots banged out. I think there’s a gash in the ceiling where my head hit it when I jumped.”

Merlini reached for a refill of Scotch. “And the finishing blow came when I discovered that you weren’t in either the study or the bedroom! My nervous system will never be the same again!”

My own was completely numb. “The ghost,” I said weakly, “improves with practice. He didn’t come out the window, and he didn’t come out the door — at least not visibly. And for good measure, he spirits the gun away too! No trap doors this time either, I suppose?”

“No. The age of trap doors ‘has went.’ Even in the theater. Stages are concrete these days. Lieutenant Flint here, consequently, has to choose between a murderer who goes out like a light and one who can swim. You appreciate his dilemma, don’t you?”

“I can’t very well overlook it. But have you noticed mine? And do you remember who got me into it? And when are you going to do something about it?”

Merlini looked at Flint. “What about Mrs. Wolff? When do we interview her?”

“Now.” Flint, who had been pacing irritably back and forth, turned and strode toward the door. Halfway there he stopped. Running footsteps pounded along the hall outside. Someone banged on our door.

Flint jumped for it, calling, “Come in.”

The door opened and disclosed Sergeant Lovejoy, breathing hard. “Got something,” he reported. “Joe saw a guy trying to get into the boathouse just now. Then he turned tail and headed for the woods, but Joe tackled him. The boys are bringing him up now.”

There were voices and the tramp of feet on the stairs.

“Well, Lieutenant,” I said, “perhaps now you’ll believe in ghosts!”

When Joe’s captive came into the room, convoyed fore and aft by cops, my hope that the elusive phantom had been captured sagged limply and collapsed with the traditional dull thud. The man couldn’t very well have looked any less like the subject of Galt’s spirit photo. His eyes were not black, but bright blue, and his more than generous nose, glowing with the ruby-redness of a port light, was certainly not ascetic — not by a jugful. He was, furthermore, short, tanned, and clean shaven. A desert isle of baldness atop his head was surrounded by a curling white surf of hair. He was distinctly ill at ease, and he eyed us all with deep suspicion.

Flint frowned uncertainly. “I’ve seen you around before.”

“Lieutenant,” the man protested. “I hae na done anything. Why—”

It was obvious as soon as he spoke who he was. The touch of Scottish accent in his voice told us that. “Douglass!” Flint exclaimed. “The missing boatkeeper.”

The prisoner looked around worriedly. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “What’s happened? What are you doin’ here? Why—”

He stopped as Flint took a step toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“I came back to get some clothes and things from ma room o’er the boathouse, and these men—”

“Where the hell have you been for the last four days? Did you know we were just about to drag the Sound for your body?”

Scotty stared at him for a moment, then looked at the floor. “Í,” he said slowly, “I was away.”

Flint scowled. “We noticed that. Go on, talk. Where and why?”

The boatkeeper’s broad fingers twisted nervously at his hat, turning it around and around. “I — well, I was lookin’ for another job. I found one and I hae to get back.”

“Why’d you leave without notice? And without the pay you had coming?”

Scotty’s answer was slow in coming. He still looked at the floor. “I decided I didna want to work here any more.”

Flint waited for him to continue, but Scotty left it at that. “I see.” Flint’s voice was harsh. “How long have you been working for Wolff?”

“Nine years.”

“And all at once you don’t want to work here any more. Just like that?”

Douglass nodded. His eyes lifted once, darted a furtive look at the rest of us, and dropped again.

Flint regarded him thoughtfully for a second, and then let him have it. “Okay. Suppose I guess. It wouldn’t be because you saw a ghost, would it?”

The reaction he got was quite satisfactory. The white tufts of cotton that were Scotty’s eyebrows ascended like twin stratosphere balloons. He stared as though Flint himself were a ghost. But the cat seemed to have got away with his tongue entirely.

The lieutenant began to grow impatient. “You’re going to talk, Douglass. Plenty. You might as well start now and get it over. When—”

Scotty looked around at the rest of us once more. Then he said, “Where’s Mr. Wolff? I want tae see him.”

“Sure, you can see him,” Flint said. “But it won’t help you any. He’s dead.”

It took Scotty a minute or so to absorb this. Flint didn’t help him any by adding, “He was murdered. Now stop stalling and talk. When did you see this — this ghost?”

Scotty’s mind was still trying to grasp the meaning in Flint’s words. His response was the automatic one of a sleepwalker. “Wednesday,” he said mechanically. “Wednesday night.”

From there on he bogged down after every few words. Flint, pumping the story out of him piece by piece, found, eventually, that the man had not only seen a ghost; it had chased him!

“I didna argue aboot it,” Scotty said. “I went awa’ at once.”

This was an understatement. More questioning disclosed that his departure had been so complete that he hadn’t stopped to look back once this side of Rye.

“Ma father,” he explained with a sudden rush of words and a thickening of his burr, “was once a caretaker of a haunted castle near Inverness. They found him floatin’ in the moat ae mornin’ wi’ his neck broke.”

Flint didn’t fancy the introduction of any additional spooks. “Yeah,” he growled skeptically, “I’ll bet the spirits that chased him came out of a bottle, too.”

“Na!” the Scotsman protested. “Tha’s just the trouble. I hae na hae a drap since Sonday. When a mon is cold sober and sees a dead mon comin’ after him—”

“Dead man?” Flint cut in. “Why are you so sure he was dead? You’d seen him before then? You knew him?”

Scotty’s protest was frantic. “Na. Na! I never saw him before at a’. And I dinna want to see him again. I want to get awa’ from here.” He half turned as if to leave, but one of his guards clamped a hand on his arm.

Flint stepped forward. His face was inches from Scotty’s. “If you didn’t know who he was, if you never saw him before, what made you so sure he was dead? You must have had some reason for thinking—”

Scotty may have been scared, but he still had his wits about him. He saw an out there and took it quickly. “A’richt, then he wasna dead. I made a mistake.”

Flint glared at him for a moment. “You’re making another now.” He glanced at his watch. “How long have you been snooping around outside this place?”

“I got here just now.” Scotty jerked a thumb at the detective on his left. “I went straight tae the boathouse and then this mon—”

“Five o’clock in the morning,” Flint cut in. “That’s a damned funny time of day for a man that’s scared of something he’s not even sure is a ghost.”

“Ma new job starts at nine. I ha tae get back to Stamford. If I don’t—”

Flint turned disgustedly to Lovejoy. “Get him out of here and make him talk. I don’t care how, but do it. Find out where he’s been every minute of the time he’s been gone and start checking back. And send Haggard up here.

Lovejoy, with Scotty and his escorts, left. When the door had closed behind them, Merlini said, “The plot thickens. His yarn sounds thin. One gets you ten that there is more in his ghost story than meets the eye.”

Flint’s expression was on the sour side. “Or,” he said glumly, “a lot less.”

Merlini began counting on his fingers. “Wolff, Mrs. Wolff, Kathryn, Dunning, Phillips, Ross, and myself—” Merlini’s left thumb unexpectedly came off in his right hand. He regarded it with surprise but no alarm, then calmly replaced it, waggled it experimentally once or twice, and went on, “—and myself have all, at one time or another, seen the apparition in the presence of corroborating witnesses. Scotty, though uncorroborated, says he saw it. Leonard has a bump on his head to show that he felt it. Galt has a portrait study. You surely aren’t going to deny there’s no fire behind a dense and billowing cloud of smoke like that, are you?”

“No,” Flint said grudgingly, “maybe not. But it doesn’t have to be hell-fire. That photo’s a fake. Any kid with a box camera and a back number of the Photographer’s Home Companion could cook it up. The broken chinaware, the spilled ink, the pictures falling off the walls, the mess in the library, the torn book illustration and the dagger — they don’t mean a thing. Nobody saw ’em happen. Anybody could have done ’em. The great vanishing act in Mrs. Wolff’s bedroom is just a matter of a flashlight on the burglar alarm and taking it on the lam down the trellis. You’ve proved that yourself.”

“And Leonard?” Merlini asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Then he’s lying when he says that no one, not even a ghost, left by that window?”

“Either that or he’s it himself.”

A playing card appeared mysteriously in Merlini’s fingers. He tried and succeeded in balancing his whisky glass on its edge. “You dismiss Leonard far too offhandedly. If he’s lying, he’s covering someone. Why should he do that for whoever bopped him on the head earlier? Or, it his injury was self-inflicted, if he is the ghost, and he fits the description none too well, then how did he shuck the dark overcoat, whiskers, necessary make-up et cetera so quickly? Is he a lightning-change artist? And what did he do with the disguise? An overcoat’s not an easy article to hide, not in the few seconds he had. It’s not in the shrubbery down below that window. I looked when I did my climb down the trellis. Leonard is definitely a problem.”

“Yes,” Flint agreed. “The answers he gives about his past are altogether too damned hazy and he strikes me as being smarter than a chauffeur should be. I’ll know more when I finish checking back on him. I’ve got a hunch the answers may be interesting.”

“Speaking of interesting answers,” Merlini said, “were you able to reach Wolff’s lawyers and find out about his will?”

Flint nodded, “Kathryn Wolff and Mrs. Wolff each get half. Doctor Haggard and Galt each get twenty-five grand for research. Dunning gets five thousand; Phillips and Douglass, two apiece.”

“And Leonard?”

Flint shook his head. “He doesn’t even get an honorable mention.”

Merlini stopped juggling his drink and drank it. “If he’s the ghost, his motive seems a bit obscure.” Merlini scaled the playing card he held to the floor near Flint’s feet. He snapped his fingers. The card jumped up and flew back into his hand. “One item was missing from the poltergeist phenomena you just listed as proving nothing, Lieutenant. What about the flower vase that up and smashed itself on the floor while Miss Wolff and Phillips were watching it? You heard about that, didn’t you?”

“Thread,” Flint answered at once. “Same like you used on that card just now.”

Merlini held out the card and his hands for inspection. “Take a look. Miss Wolff thought of that too. And she looked. She didn’t find any either. What’s more, the windows were all tightly closed, and Kay had just entered by one door, Phillips by the other. If there were threads, coming in through keyholes or such, they’d have snagged them. No, I don’t think it was thread.”

“Okay,” Flint growled, “but will you stop trying to prove it was an invisible man?”

“But if he’s not invisible,” I asked, not trying to provoke Flint, but merely wanting an answer, “how the hell did he get out of that study?”

I spoke out of turn. Flint had an answer — one that I liked even less. “Your word,” he snapped, “is all I’ve got that says he was ever in the study. And when Haggard—” He stopped abruptly and started toward the door. “I wonder where the devil—”

The door opened just as he reached it. Lovejoy and the doctor were there. The latter puffed nervously at a cigarette.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Yes. Come in. Lovejoy, get Tucker. I want him too.”

Haggard stepped in and waited.

Flint said, “What’s Mrs. Wolff’s condition? I’ve got to see her.”

“She’s sleeping. You can’t question her now. I gave her a sedative.”

“You tell her about her husband?”

“No. I didn’t think she could take it just then. After she’s slept—”

“We’d better get it over. You can wake her, can’t you?”

Haggard frowned. “Yes. But I don’t think—”

“It won’t wait. If you don’t wake her, I will.”

Flint’s curt manner only put Haggard’s back up. The latter gave the lieutenant an obstinate look, and seemed about to tell him where to head in. But the immediate clash was averted when a short, harassed-looking little man hurried in with a fistful of fingerprint cards and took Flint’s attention.

“About time you had something to report, isn’t it, Tucker?” the lieutenant asked.

The man nodded. “I was just coming with it. Got a couple of things that look interesting.” He hesitated, glancing uncertainly at the rest of us. But Flint’s impatience overflowed.

“Okay. Let’s have ’em.”

Tucker was definitely no press agent. The things he described as merely interesting needed the circus vocabulary of a Dexter Fellows to do them justice. “I picked up a nice clear print on the rail at the head of the front stairs,” he said. “All four fingers and a partial thumb. I’ve checked against prints of everyone in the joint. No soap. We need more samples.”

“Including me?” I asked. I knew definitely that I hadn’t touched that stair rail.

“Including you. I copped your prints while you were sleeping.”

“What about the boatkeeper?” Flint asked. “Did you get his?”

“Yeah, his too.”

Flint looked at Merlini. “Well, that’s that. Or are you going to tell me that spooks can leave fingerprints just like anybody else?”

The lieutenant stuck his neck all the way out on that one, and the ax fell promptly.

“It is not,” Merlini answered, “an uncommon psychic phenomenon. The famous ‘Margery,’ who was investigated in ’24 by the Scientific American committee, obtained thumbprints in wax of her deceased brother and spirit control, Walter. Or so she claimed. Later, they turned out to look an awful lot like the prints of a still living dentist who had attended some of her earlier sittings. On the other hand, Franek Kluski obtained wax molds of spirit hands, complete with friction ridges, and with the fingers so interlocked that dematerialization would seem to be the only possible manner in which the hands could have been withdrawn, leaving the molds intact. Galt, if you ask him, will probably cite that case as one of the unexplained and thus genuine proofs of—”

The quick readiness of Merlini’s reply caught Flint a bit oft balance. Regaining it finally, he cut in, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask.” He turned back to Tucker. “Anything else?”

The fingerprint man nodded. “Plenty. A flock of prints that match the ones on the stair rail. Dozen or so altogether. A couple on the window in Mrs. Wolff’s room, three or four on those pictures that fell off the walls last week, a couple on the pieces of that smashed flower vase, and the rest—”

He hesitated, aware that Flint wasn’t going to like what came next.

“And the rest,” he finished, “are all in the study.”

Under the circumstances, Flint controlled himself remarkably well. All he did was bellow, “WHERE?” with a blast that nearly swept the little fingerprint expert off his feet.

“In the study,” Tucker repeated jumpily. “Three prints on the desk top, a couple on the door, one on the light switch, one near the—”

The lieutenant had heard enough. “Haggard!” he snapped. “I’m seeing Mrs. Wolff now!” He shot out through the door so fast I marveled that the friction of the air didn’t make him blaze, meteorlike, into incandescence.

Haggard scowled and hurried after him. Then, as Merlini followed, I swung quickly out of bed, pulled my cocoon of blankets around me and joined the parade, shedding hot-water bottles as I went.

As I passed Tucker he was saying, “Hey, Lieutenant. Wait! The worst is yet to—”

But Flint didn’t hear him. He had seen Merlini and was busy growling, “Oh no you don’t. You two are staying put. Tucker, see that they stay in that bedroom.”

He vanished with the doctor into Mrs. Wolff’s room. The door closed solidly behind them.

“The policeman’s lot,” Merlini muttered glumly, “is not so hot. And an amateur detective naps on no bed of roses either.” He turned and looked at Tucker. “What is this ominous-sounding something else you found?”

If Merlini intended to catch the detective oft guard, he failed. Tucker said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” shooed us back into Wolff’s room, and locked the door.

“Well,” I griped, “here we are again. In the soup. Didn’t you have Flint check with Gavigan’s office and get our detecting visas okayed?”

“I tried,” Merlini said, “but the inspector is the little man who isn’t there when we need him most. He’s attending a police convention in Philadelphia. And cops’ conventions, apparently, are like all the others. I put through a long-distance call to his hotel. Four o’clock in the morning and he wasn’t in his room. I wonder what amusements an inspector of police can find at that hour and, of all places, in that town? It’s highly suspicious.”

He filled his whisky glass and walked into tire bathroom.

“You should talk,” I grumbled. “Bathroom drinker! I wish you’d put some of that highly advertised clairvoyance of yours to work and find out what goes on in Mrs. Wolff’s room.”

“That,” his voice came back, “is exactly what I am doing. Pipe down, will you?”

I blinked and joined him hastily. He stood close by the connecting door that led into Mrs. Wolff’s room, his ear pressed against the panel. I imitated him. But, although the sound of voices trickled through, the words were indistinguishable. Merlini warned me with a glance and turned the doorknob slowly and carefully. When the catch had been drawn all the way back, he eased the door open a fraction of an inch.

Flint’s voice was saying, “Why did your husband decide so suddenly a week ago to transfer his files to his bedroom and lock up that study? Why did he issue orders that no one was to go into that room?”

Mrs. Wolff’s voice, worried, replied, “I don’t know.”

“But he must have given some reason. What was it?”

“He didn’t give one. He merely issued orders. And Dudley wasn’t the sort of person one cross-examined.”

“All right, then why do you think he did it? You could guess, couldn’t you?”

Flint wasn’t getting very far very fast. “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Wolff said, “I haven’t the slightest idea. I don’t understand it at all.”

The lieutenant was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You have a key to the study?”

“A key? No. My husband and Dunning were the only ones who had keys. And he took Dunning’s.”

“I see. And yet when you left the guest room you went directly to the study, and went in. What made you think that door would be unlocked?”

“I didn’t. I wanted to see Dudley. I thought I was opening his door. It was because the door wasn’t locked that I didn’t realize I had opened the wrong one until I was inside. Why was the door unlocked? Who—”

Flint ignored that. “You went in. Go on. Then what?”

“I–I was curious to know why Dudley had locked the room up. I wondered why it was unlocked now. I started to look around. Then—”

“You had turned on the light?”

“Yes. But then suddenly I heard someone in the hall outside — someone putting a key in the lock.”

“You locked the door after going in. Why?”

“The door was partly ajar when I got there. When I closed it behind me, it locked by itself. It’s a spring lock.”

“Go on. Someone turned the key.”

“I–I was frightened. I didn’t know who — or what it might be. I–I switched off the light, and then — the door opened.”

She stopped. Flint said nothing, waiting.

There was a mounting tenseness in her voice when she continued. “Someone fumbled at the switch. The light came on. It was Dudley. He wanted to know what I was doing there and how I had got in. He was angry. He didn’t believe me at first and he started to accuse me of taking one of the study keys that he’d just discovered missing from his key ring. And then, in mid-sentence, he stopped. He stared past me over my shoulder. I heard a movement behind me. I started to turn. Then—”

Her voice slowed. She seemed to be trying to make an effort to remember.

“And then?” Flint prompted impatiently.

“Something struck me on the head. That’s all I can remember. What happened? Is Dudley all right? Who—”

Flint cut in, his voice grim. “You’re positive there was someone else in that room with you and your husband?”

“Yes. I heard someone move. The desk was behind me. He must have been hiding behind that.”

“But you didn’t see him?”

“No, but I—”

She stopped uncertainly. Flint urged her on. “But you what?”

“I think I know who it was. I remember now. Just as I turned I–I heard Dudley whisper, ‘The ghost!’”

That tore it. Flint forgot himself and swore heavily.

Then Mrs. Wolff’s voice, frightened, demanded, “Why are you here? What happened to my husband? What—”

Flint told her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wolff. Your husband was shot.”

“He — he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

The silence that followed was complete. Then, after a moment, Haggard’s voice said quickly, “You’d better let me handle this, Lieutenant.”

I heard Flint turn and cross the room. And then I made my mistake. I started to retreat too soon, before Merlini had quite closed the door. Flint’s footsteps stopped abruptly, Merlini gave me a hopeless glance, dropped quickly to his knees, and, when the lieutenant jerked the door open and came in, was busily investigating the underside of a bath mat.

“I’m positive that half dollar rolled in here when I dropped it,” he said. He turned his head, saw Flint’s feet and, without looking up, tapped the latter’s shoe. “Would you mind stepping back just—”

The lieutenant moved involuntarily. And Merlini’s hand came up holding the coin at his finger tips. “Here it is. Clumsy of me—”

“Yes,” Flint agreed in a tone that was anything but reassuring. Very clumsy. I hope you two heard everything?”

Merlini nodded, calmly closed his fingers over the coin and then opened them to find a cigarette in its place. He got to his feet. “We heard enough,” he admitted brightly, “to indicate that Mrs. Wolff’s story was no great help.”

“Not to your friend Harte, it wasn’t,” Flint said quite uncharitably.

“Nor to you. You were hoping to get a witness who’d put Ross in the room at the time the shots were fired. What you got was a statement that the ghost—”

“So what? He’s a guy with a beard. Maybe it came off out there in the Sound. Maybe — yes, Tucker?”

I turned. The fingerprint man stood in the doorway.

“I had something else to report,” he said, “but you ran out on me. I found a couple of other prints in the study — prints that do match one of the persons in this house.”

He held out a fingerprint card. Flint’s grab at it went far toward proving that the hand is quicker than the eye.

I took a step forward and sneaked a hasty look over his shoulder.

The name written across the card’s top above the ten black ink smudges was: Doctor Sydney Haggard.

I needed time to reorient myself after that one. But I didn’t get it. The doctor himself, in person, picked precisely that moment to open the door of Mrs. Wolff’s room. He stepped in, saw the look on Flint’s face, and stopped dead.

A collection of discarded store-window dummies would have presented a gayer, more animated appearance than we did for the next second or two. Finally the lieutenant opened his mouth to speak — then closed it again promptly.

The burglar alarm clanged furiously and, behind Haggard, out beyond the windows of Mrs. Wolff’s room, hell popped. A car motor burst with a lion’s roar into sudden violent action. The angry rush of sound swelled, drowned out a shouted command to stop, and began to diminish as the car swept on down the drive away from the house. A frantic fusillade of shots followed.

Flint zoomed cometlike toward the hall, leaving half a dozen words floating in his wake.

“Tucker! Haggard’s under arrest. Watch him!”

More gunfire came from outside, and the roar of a second car.

Tucker tried to stop Merlini and myself as we raced after Flint, but the orders concerning Haggard handicapped him. Just as we started down the stairs the front door opened and a uniformed policeman stepped in. He had his gun in his hand.

“A car came out of the garage like a bat out of hell,” he reported quickly. “I jumped out to stop it and the bastard tried to run me down. Lovejoy and Newman went after him in the squad car.”

Flint, shooting past him, snapped, “Who was driving?”

“I couldn’t see. He was hunched down over the wheel and he went past too damned fast. It was a blue Cadillac convertible. License 9V1–315.”

I grabbed for the stair rail when I heard that, and nearly lost my covering of blankets. The car was Kay’s!

Flint took one look outside the door, then came back. “Phone!” he ordered. “Get an alarm out. And keep the line open. I’ll get you a description. I’m going to count noses.”

That didn’t take him long. Galt and Phillips were already in the hall below. Doctor Haggard and Tucker appeared, and then as I started toward Kay’s door she hurried out, still tying the blue dressing-gown she’d drawn on hastily over her pajamas.

Three minutes later Flint was at the phone rattling off a description of the one person who had not answered the roll call — Albert Dunning.

Lieutenant Flint looked as if he wished he had never heard of police work. I could sympathize with him. From his viewpoint, a grossly materialistic one that brooked no nether-world suspects, the only person who could have possibly made an exit from that study after the shooting was myself. Then, hot on the heels of that conclusion, Doctor Haggard’s fingerprints place him in the study, and Dunning takes a powder. It was enough to give the whole Federal Bureau of Investigation, J. Edgar Hoover included, a sick headache.

And, although I knew I was innocent, that was no advantage. My outlook, on the contrary, was even darker — a dank, gloomy, Gothic blackness filled with flitting spectral shapes. I didn’t like the critters any better than Flint did; yet my sole possible suspect was an airy wraith whom no one would identify, who oozed through solid walls with all the ease of something conjured up by a Hollywood Special Effects Department, and, at the same time, was substantial enough to commit assault and battery, attempted drowning, and murder.

How Haggard and Dunning fitted in, I hadn’t the faintest notion, nor did it look as if I’d have a chance at one very soon. Flint was ordering Tucker to take Haggard to the library for questioning.

“I’ll see him there in just a minute.” He gave Merlini and myself a scowl which said plainly that no passes were being issued, not even eavesdropping permits.

I went back up the stairs toward where Kay stood looking down over the balcony rail. But, as I approached, she gave me a look that was at least as cold as any Flint had thrown my way and twice as disconcerting. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and hurried past me toward her room.

“Hey,” I exploded, “what—”

Her whisper, as she passed, said, “Nix! Phone me from your room.” Then she was gone, and the door slammed jarringly behind her.

“Damn!” I muttered under my breath. “Things happen around here so fast I can’t—”

At the hall’s end I saw Merlini, who had been at my side a moment before, cautiously disappearing down the back stairs. His attitude indicated that he was up to no good. I didn’t get that either. I shook my head hopelessly, hitched up my trailing blankets, and went back to the bedroom.

The phone there was a flossy intercommunicating gadget with a row of buttons on its base as long as your arm. I lifted the receiver and jabbed at the one opposite Kay’s name. She was already at the other end of the wire, waiting.

“Ross,” she said quickly. “Flint suspects you, doesn’t he?”

“Well, frankly, he has hinted at something like that once or twice. What was that high-hat act in the hall for just now?”

“Flint. He was watching. Dunning told him that Dad had threatened to cut me out of his will.”

I tried to concentrate. “Are you making sense? Or does my condition make things sound that way? I don’t get it.”

“Flint figures that gives you a motive. So I told him we weren’t speaking. I told him I hated the sight of you, that you were the last person on earth I’d ever marry. I said you were a dope.” Her voice quavered, an SOS quality in it. “Darling, I wish you were here!”

“I will be as soon as I find some pants.”

“Ross, no! Flint will think—”

“Do him good. Besides, it’s nothing to the things he thinks already. And anyway, he didn’t act as though he believed your story when he talked to me.”

“I was afraid he didn’t. That’s why I acted as I did. I thought some corroborative evidence might help. We’ve got to pretend—”

This was too much. “No!” I objected flatly. “Life’s too damn complicated now. I’m coming—”

Behind me a voice commanded, “Ross, get off that phone!” I turned. Merlini was bearing down on me. He jerked the receiver from my hand. “Who is it?” he whispered.

“Kay. What’s eating you? Why—”

He spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Merlini. Hang up. And keep off the phone. Explain later.”

He clamped his hand tightly over the mouthpiece. “And Ross, if you lay another egg like you did the last time I tried to eavesdrop—”

“Eavesdrop? But how—”

“I detoured around Flint and got into the library. I hid the phone in the library-table drawer and took the receiver off the hook. We’ve got a direct wire. If he doesn’t hear your bodiless voice floating round the room, we may be able to stay up to date on this case. Or would you rather spend your time between now and the trial in clink?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I growled, “My nervous system needs peace and quiet.”

Merlini, suddenly intent on the phone, waved at me frantically. I subsided, and began hunting through Wolff’s wardrobe for clothes that weren’t too short and too wide. There were none, but I pulled out an assortment and got into them anyway.

Merlini, ear glued to the phone, looked around as I drew a shirt over my head. “Go back to bed with your hot-water bottles and blankets,” he said. “Flint won’t be letting you go any place anyway, unless it’s headquarters.”

“No,” I objected. “Those blankets keep slipping. I’m no Indian. Besides, I’ve got a date and I wouldn’t want the lieutenant to get any more wrong ideas. He’s overstocked now. How’s the play-by-play broadcast coming?”

“It lags at the moment. Haggard has deposed that he lives alone — Soundview Apartments in Mamaroneck. Says he was in bed when Phillips phoned. Might be. No corroboration. Driving time: five minutes, and the call didn’t go out until ten after the shooting. He’s insisted his fingerprints must have been left in the study a couple of weeks ago, he doesn’t remember exactly when.

“Flint called that one. Galt’s statement says he was in there a week ago Saturday night, just before Wolff suddenly decided to lock the study up. Flint naturally wanted to know more. The doctor hemmed and hawed. And Flint is now reading him a riot act, Type A, No. 6. I hope—”

He stopped suddenly and gave his full attention to the phone. I crossed the room and put my ear close to the receiver, but Merlini was holding it so tightly against his own that I couldn’t hear a thing. I could see from the expression on his face that I was missing front-page copy.

“Haggard’s talking?” I whispered.

Merlini nodded, and motioned me to be still. I turned and hurried to the door. The hall outside was clear. I slipped out, hugged the wall as I passed the stair well, and made Kay’s room undetected. Her door was unlocked. I pushed it open an inch or two.

“Kay, are you decent?”

“Flint won’t think so,” she replied, “not if he finds you—”

“He won’t.” I ducked in. “He’s busy. Where’s your phone?”

I saw it, before she could answer, on a table beside the bed. I sat down and scooped up the receiver.

Kay crossed the room. “You and Merlini are up to something. What—”

I kept one hand over the mouthpiece. “Ssh! Special broadcast on a nationwide hookup by the Flint-Haggard ensemble. Sit down and be quiet like a mouse. We’re on the air too.”

Haggard’s voice was faint and far away, but I got enough to catch the gist of his story.

“The man in the photo,” he was saying. “He cut the phone cord. Dunning found him in the study going through Wolff’s private files. He called Wolff. Galt and I — waited, talking. Ten minutes later Dunning came back — nervous, upset — said Wolff wanted me. I went up. The stranger — an FBI man named Garner — blackmailing Wolff. When he tried to put the screws on—”

“FBI man?” Flint must have been sitting right over the phone. His voice rattled the receiver in my hand. “How did Wolff know that?”

“Identification card. I saw it later.”

“Well that’s one thing I can check anyway. What did he have on Wolff?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that Wolff took a swing at him and laid him out. When I got there—” Haggard’s voice was reluctant. Flint had made him talk, but he wasn’t enjoying it. He stalled now completely.

The lieutenant ordered, “Get on with it!”

Haggard’s voice had a deflated sound. I just managed to make out the words.

“When I got there, the man was dead.”

Flint didn’t say a thing for a full minute. I stopped breathing myself. Kay squeezed my arm.

“Ross, what is it?”

“Dynamite,” I said weakly. “Haggard’s identified the ghost. A man he saw in your father’s study a week ago. And he was D.O.A.”

“D.O.A.?”

“Dead on arrival.”

Then Flint spoke. His voice was the voice of doom. “Why wasn’t that reported to the police at the time?”

Hopelessly Haggard said, “I tried to. But Wolff was on a spot — the newspapers — Mrs. Wolff backed him up. We argued—”

“She was there too?”

“Yes. Wolff was completely unreasonable, and halfcrazy with fear. He was obsessed by death — amounted to a phobia. When he struck the man and then found that he’d killed—”

“That’s no reason for not reporting,” Flint said coldly. “And you know it.”

“There was another. I had to have more funds for my research — right on the edge — something big. Wolff knew that. He said I’d not get the money I needed unless—”

“Unless you helped him cover up.”

“Yes.” Haggard’s voice rose. “Dammit! He had me cold. If I brought a newspaper barrage of that sort of publicity down around his head, I’d—”

Flint’s voice was icy. “You’d have been in a better spot than you are now. What did you do with the body?”

Haggard’s voice nearly faded out. “—grove of pines — along the shore — we — we buried it.”

Flint’s voice was that of a sleepwalker having a bad dream. “I hope,” he said slowly, “that the A.M.A. likes those reasons of yours better than I do.” Then he roared, “Tucker!” A door slammed.

I put the receiver back in its cradle, and, for a moment, stared at nothing. The ghost was apparently that of a man whom Wolff had killed and whose body had been secretly buried. I knew at last why its appearance had effected him as it did.

Kay was shaking me. “Ross, if you don’t tell me—”

“Haggard just took the lid off. We’ve got another corpse. Your father, stepmother, and Dunning were all lying like troopers when they said they didn’t know who the ghost was.” I gave her a rapid summary of the rest of it, then added, “Come on. I want to see Merlini.”

I jumped up and went to the door.

Kay came after me and caught at my arm. “Careful. The lieutenant—”

Her warning was too late. The door was already open and Flint, in person, faced us from the head of the stairs.

“Well,” he said. “So you two don’t speak!”

There didn’t seem to be any answer to that one.

Flint added, “Miss Wolff, your car keys. Where’d you see them last?”

“I’m afraid I left them in the car.”

He gave her a disgusted look, then hurried on down the hall and disappeared into Mrs. Wolff’s room, Doctor Haggard after him.

“My horoscope for today,” I muttered gloomily, “must have predicted floods, typhoons, and ice storms. If it didn’t, astrology is a washout.”

Merlini’s head popped out of Wolff’s room just as we reached it. “Ross, get Tucker up here. Quickly!”

“Tucker? He won’t take any orders from me.”

“Tell him Flint sent you. Tell him anything. But get him.” Merlini hurried back into the room.

“Kay,” I said, “do your Mata Hari imitation. Find out what that means.” I went back to the stairs. Tucker was in the hall below near the front door giving rapid instructions to two uniformed cops.

I called down. “Tucker! The lieutenant wants you on the double-quick. Wolff’s room. Hurry!”

Then I ducked, not giving him a chance to discuss the matter or pop any doubting questions. It worked. I heard him start after me up the stairs.

In Wolff’s room, Merlini was blowing at Galt’s iodine fumer, spraying the purple gas onto the metal surface of the stack of file cabinets in the corner. Tucker burst in, looked around, and scowled at me.

“You said the lieutenant—” Then he saw what Merlini was doing. “Hey, what are you up to? Flint told you to lay off—”

“I know,” Merlini said. “But this is rush. Tucker, if you want to give your boss a surprise that will curl his hair, take a quick look at this.” He pointed to several brown smudges on the face of the cabinet’s top drawer.

Tucker’s professional curiosity started to work. He crossed the room, pulling a magnifying glass from his pocket as he went.

And, behind him from the doorway, a cold voice asked, “What’s going to curl my hair?” Flint stood there, Haggard and Ryan behind him.

No one answered. Merlini looked at Tucker. Then the latter suddenly straightened up and turned. “There’s a print here that matches the ones I’ve got labeled Person Unknown.”

“And this file,” Merlini said distinctly, spacing his words, “is the one that Wolff’s blackmailing visitor was investigating in the study a week ago Saturday night. The ghost leaves the same fingerprints as the dead Mr. Garner!” He glanced at Haggard. “You’re quite certain, Doctor, that—”

But Flint was roaring over Merlini, dropping bombs. “How the blazing hell do you know anything about that? The library doors were under guard. You couldn’t—”

Merlini’s dark eyes twinkled. “You forget,” he said calmly, “I’m a mind reader. And, with so many positively violent thought waves flitting about—” He turned back to Haggard and completed his question while Flint was still sputtering. “You’re quite sure the man was dead?”

Haggard nodded in a dazed fashion. “Those fingerprints can’t match. It’s impossible. Of course he was dead. You don’t think I would have—”

“They match all right,” Tucker put in. “I’ll swear—”

Flint swore too — at Merlini. “If he wasn’t dead then, he is now. They buried him!”

“I know,” Merlini admitted. “And in a grove of pine trees. Remember what the apparition left behind when he appeared in the hall out there yesterday morning? A small, dried cake of mud with pine needles embedded in it! Don’t you think we might take a look into that grave?”

“That’s being done,” Flint growled. He stepped forward and planted himself in front of Merlini. “I want to know how you—”

The phone, just beside him, began to ring. Flint grabbed at it irritably. As he picked it up, he started slightly and gave the receiver a curious look. He gave Merlini another. And his mind worked out loud.

“This receiver’s warm. You couldn’t have been calling outside because I — So, that’s your mind-reading secret, is it? Who?” This last exclamation was directed into the phone. “Yes, he’s here. Who’s this?”

The answer raised Flint’s eyebrows. Hastily, he cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, muffling his voice. I could only make out a word or two from there on.

“—yes, murder — both of them — clear up to their necks — I see — yes. Okay, thanks.” He hung up.

“That,” he said slowly, “was your friend, Inspector Gavigan.”

“It’s about time.” Merlini’s smile was a relieved one. “I was beginning to think my official status would never be confirm—”

“It’s still nil,” Flint said flatly. “You’re not in his county just now. Besides, he warned me not to use handcuffs if I arrested you. He recommended a day-and-night guard.”

Merlini groaned, “There’s liquor at that convention tool” He reached for the phone. “I’ll tell him what I think of his sense of humor, his scandalous conduct, his—”

Flint stepped in front of him. “You’re not telling anybody anything. And you’re tagging right along with me where I can watch you.” He gave me a dirty look. “And you too. Haggard, show us where that grave is.”

Kay tried to get Flint to wait until she had dressed, but he snapped, “This isn’t a sight-seeing tour. Get back to your room. The rest of you start moving.”

A half-dozen stone markers in the little clearing among the pines sagged wearily with the weight of age; the inscriptions on their gray faces were blurred and cryptic. A blue uniform coat hung over one of them, and before another, two red-faced patrolmen were industriously digging. A third stood near by directing operations. Farther back, on the clearing’s edge, the boatkeeper, Scotty Douglass, watched dourly. He was trying to fill a briar pipe and spilling rather more tobacco than he put in because his fingers shook.

“Somebody’s been digging here all right,” the officer in charge reported. “The ground’s loose.” He pointed to a sheet of newspaper spread out close by the grave, its edges weighted down with stones. “Footprint. Nice neat one. Rubber-heel markings that oughta be a cinch.”

Flint knelt, raised the paper and took a look. “Haggard,” he said after a moment, “let’s see your shoes.”

The doctor approached, lifted one foot and let Flint scowl at its sole.

“Those the shoes you wore when you were here that night?”

Haggard nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

Flint replaced the paper. “Tucker, get your stuff and make a cast. Compare it with Wolff’s, Dunning’s, and Haggard’s shoes, every pair you can find.”

As Tucker nodded and hurried off Merlini said, “Lieutenant, take a look at friend Douglass. The subject of footprints and shoes seems to bother him. He’s positively white about the gills. I wonder—”

He didn’t have to wonder long. The sudden spotlight of our attention increased Scotty’s perturbation tenfold. If I ever saw a man who looked as if he wanted to run like hell, Scotty was it.

“Okay,” Flint snapped. “Step over here, Douglass.”

The man shuffled over and lifted a foot for the lieutenant’s inspection reluctantly. I didn’t need to see what Flint saw to know that Merlini’s shot had put a hole right smack through the center of the target. Scotty’s expression was as eloquent as the markings on his rubber heels.

“I guess this time you talk, don’t you, Scotty?” Flint stood up. He aimed his forefinger at the grave. “What do you know about what’s buried in there?”

Scotty wouldn’t look where Flint pointed, nor would he look at Flint. His eyes cast quick nervous glances about him as though he hoped for some chance of escape, or as if afraid that he might see something he did not want to see.

He spoke haltingly. “I–I saw Mr. Wolff, Dunning, and the doctor carry something out of the house — a big heavy bundle it was, wrapped in a blanket. I—”

Flint cut in. “When was this?”

“A week ago, Saturday night. They carried spades and they came up here.”

“You followed them?”

The boatkeeper nodded. “I stayed back under the trees and watched. I saw them digging. Then they buried what it was they had, and covered it up.”

Haggard, beside me, said, “I’ll be damned.”

There was fire in Flint’s eyes, and in his voice. “And then what did you do?”

“I–I went back too. But then I was thinkin’ it o’er, an’ it did look verra fishy.” The emotional tension that pulled at Scotty brought his burr back again. “An’ the more I thought, the more I dinna like it at a’. So then I got a spade—”

“How much time did you spend at this thinking, Scotty?” Merlini asked.

“’Twas an hour before I went back. I had to make rounds first. An’ I dug in where they hae been diggin’. And—” he looked accusingly at Haggard—“it was a body I found.” Scotty grew incoherent. “A dead body — it hae to be dead — it was lyin’ there a’ that time, and then— then—”

“Then what, Scotty?” Flint sounded apprehensive.

“You’ll na believe me, but it began to climb up out of that grave after me!”

He was right. The lieutenant didn’t believe him. In an awed voice, he said, “D.t.’s!”

Behind him, one of the men in the grave gave an exclamation and stooped down. When he stood again, he was tugging at a gray-flannel blanket that was streaked with dirt. He looked up into our staring faces.

“D.t.’s?” he said. “Maybe, but there’s no body here now!”

“Magicians!” Flint exploded disgustedly. “Ghosts! And now zombies! Oh hell!”

I think we all felt the same way, all, that is, except Doctor Haggard. His professional aplomb had taken a severe beating in the last hour or so, but this development, oddly, seemed to restore some of it.

“That,” he said, half to himself, “lets me out.”

Flint heard him. “Oh yeah? And how do you figure that?”

The doctor looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken. “Well, you can hardly — well, hold me as a material witness unless you have a body, can you?”

“If that,” Flint threatened, “is the reason someone moved the body, he’s got another think coming. It just happens, in spite of the rental-library fiction you read, that a corpus delicti is not a body. All I have to do is prove the fact of death. I don’t need a body, not when I’ve got the signed statements of Douglass, Mrs. Wolff, and an M.D. who happens to be an authority on death and its causes!”

Merlini had his half dollar out again. It flickered back and forth in his fingers wavering between visibility and nothingness. His eye held an enthusiastic gleam and his voice, for the first time in hours, was almost cheerful.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “Scotty’s story is the first lone ray of light to come poking through the thick damp fog of medieval darkness that covers this whole case. Don’t you see that it offers us the first halfway decent explanation of our ghost? We can skip all those dead-end, false-whisker speculations as to who could be impersonating the dead man. Scotty’s story may very well mean that the ghost is the dead man himself! No wonder Dudley Wolff had the wind up! Could anyone want a more authentic haunt?”

“I don’t want any kind,” Flint said bleakly. He eyed the magician like a psychiatrist discovering some new species of lunatic. “Doctor Haggard has certified the man was dead. He’s got no reason to lie about that. I had to drag it out of him.”

“No,” Merlini said. “Perhaps not. But the fingerprints on the files. They match—”

Flint shook his head. “So what? It hasn’t been proved they were made by the man Haggard saw dead and helped bury. They could have been made any time this last week. Are you forgetting that Douglass also said he didn’t come back and dig into this grave until an hour after the burial? He’s admitted he likes his liquor. Just because he thinks that maybe he saw the body move—”

“But I did!” Scotty insisted. “It sat up, and clawed the blanket away from its face! I dinna wait to see wha’ happened then!”

“I wouldn’t let the hour interment bother you too much, Lieutenant,” Merlini said. “Or Doctor Haggard’s diagnosis of death either. Much stranger things have happened. Take the intriguing case of the Thieving Sexton and the Corpse of the Countess of Edgcumbe. She was certified dead, and entombed in the family vault. A sexton who was no better than he should be, if that, returned later and attempted to steal a valuable ring from her ladyship’s finger. As he tried to remove it, the corpse suddenly sat bolt upright in the coffin. The thief, as Scotty here did, as anyone might do, made tracks. Lady Edgcumbe then got out of her coffin and walked, clad in her shroud, to the house where she fainted in her husband’s arms.

“Or take General Robert E. Lee’s mother who was likewise once buried prematurely and saved from an Edgar Allan Poe fate in time’s nick when she recovered consciousness, knocked on her coffin lid, and attracted the attention of the men who were filling in the grave. There have been many similar cases, and I suspect that they may, in part at least, account for the vampire legend.”

“We’re going places fast,” Flint muttered. “Now it’s vampires! Are you trying to tell me that those people were pronounced dead by qualified physicians when they weren’t?”

“Yes,” Merlini nodded. “I was hinting at just that. Illness or hysteria sometimes induces a cataleptic coma in which the pulse and respiration are so feeble they escape detection. In one case the victim, still half-conscious but exhibiting cataleptic symptoms, heard himself pronounced dead and had the dubious privilege of listening to his own funeral service without being able to call out or make any movement. Luckily, he did succeed in doing so before the coffin lid was screwed down. There have been many other instances in which the ending was less happy. In this day and age, however, we needn’t fear burial alive. If the Grim Reaper doesn’t really get us, the embalming process will!”

“That’s ducky,” Flint growled. “And how the hell do you know about the ones who were buried alive if they didn’t live to report? Mind reading? Spirit messages? Or ghostly emanations from the Beyond?” He was being heavily sarcastic.

“Not emanations,” Merlini replied. “Exhumations. The bodies were found to have changed position in ways that indicated movement after burial. And post-mortems disclosed that death was due not to the certified cause, but to asphyxia.”

The lieutenant turned to Doctor Haggard. “Well, what about it? He’s saying that the medical profession doesn’t know for sure when a man’s dead.”

Haggard, who had been frowning intently at the empty grave, looked up, first at Merlini and then at Flint. Slowly he said, “I’m afraid he’s right about premature burial. He seems to have been reading Hartmann and Tebb.[1] Another authority on the subject, LeGuern, collected evidence of over twenty-three hundred cases and came to the conclusion that as many as three in every thousand interments might — this was before embalming became general practice of course — be premature ones.

“Death can be a very difficult thing to determine. There is only one absolutely certain sign — decomposition. But unless the man I saw was a schizophrenic — cataleptic coma occurs commonly in that disease — or unless he was otherwise ill or suffering from acute hysteria, I don’t see—”

Haggard glanced again at the grave. “The empty grave proves nothing. I’m inclined to agree that Douglass’s taste for stimulants—”

Merlini interrupted. “You keep forgetting that there are other witnesses as well. You, yourself, identified the image in Galt’s photograph as being that of the dead man.” He looked at Flint. “And Mrs. Wolff did the same, didn’t she?”

Flint nodded. “Yeah, but—”

“And, if they are the same,” Merlini went on, “lots of witnesses beside Scotty here have seen the corpse in motion. Mrs. Wolff, Miss Wolff, Phillips, Dunning, Galt, Harte, myself—”

“Dammit,” Flint burst out, “even if I should admit catalepsy—” he used the word gingerly as if afraid it might bite—“and I’m not saying I do, you aren’t going to make me believe that anyone could stay in that hole in the ground, under four feet of sand and earth, for one solid hour unless—” Flint gave Merlini a sudden suspicious scowl—“unless he’s a magician!”

Merlini grinned. “I think you may have something there. Only, just because I’m so handy, don’t start barking up the wrong magician. The one that climbed up out of this grave was a conjurer of another color. Do you know anything about the magic of Egypt, Algiers, and India?”

Flint looked anything but interested. “No. I don’t. I’ve got along so far without it.”

“Then perhaps this is where you change cars. The prize item in the Eastern fakirs’ bag of tricks is voluntary burial alive for varying periods in an apparent state of suspended animation. I think I’ll go back to the house. It’s chilly out here.” He moved as if to start off.

Flint snapped, “You stay where you are!” He looked as if he felt the course of the investigation slipping out of control, and as if he didn’t at all like the direction in which it was going. I had qualms myself.

Merlini turned.

Flint went on, “You said tricks. The stunts they do are all monkey business with trap doors, secret exits, air tubes. That’s why they’re called fakirs. Garner, if I’m to believe anything I’ve been told, had an impromptu burial in a spot he couldn’t possibly have predicted. That grave doesn’t show the slightest sign of hocus-pocus. It’s four feet deep. There wasn’t any coffin. He was in it for an hour. No Egyptian, Algerian, or Hindu—”

“Now,” Merlini put in, “you’re trespassing on my department. The world’s all-time record for lying still is held by Marguerite Bozenval, ‘The Dormouse of Menelles.’ Her sad case would give any practical joker pause. She had an illegitimate child when she was twenty-one and a girl friend told her, as a joke, that the gendarmes were coming to arrest her. Hysterical, she became unconscious and stayed that way, fed through a tube, for twenty years. She regained consciousness in 1903 a few hours before she died.

“And the probable world’s champion emulator of Lazarus was the Fakeer of Lahore who, in 1837, at the court of Runjeet Singh, was triply encased in a linen bag, a padlocked box, and a stone vault that was sealed and guarded day and night by a squad of British soldiers supplied by the then Governor General of India, Sir Claude Wade. The Fakeer, still alive, though somewhat shriveled and stiff, came out of his trance little the worse for wear after six weeks!”

Flint was unconvinced.

“Believe-It-or-Not Ripley lives down the road a piece. Remind me to introduce you sometime. The two of you would get along swell. You can believe that was the longdistance trance and non-eating record if you want but it looks to me like the corporal of the guard collected some fix money. Besides, that guy wasn’t filed away underground. A padlocked box and a stone vault, probably with barred windows, wouldn’t be so airtight. Can’t you skip the Sunday-supplement yarns that have nothing to do with the case?”

“All right,” Merlini grinned. “I’ll stick to underground burials. Another Hindu is reported by Sir James Braid to have been buried five feet down, his grave guarded, and corn planted in the earth above it which sprouted and grew to a height of several inches before he was exhumed. There are other recorded cases of burials lasting from three to thirty days, the best authenticated of which is probably that reported from Tunis by Harry Price, secretary of the University of London Council for Psychic Research, who was present when an Algerian fakir was exhumed after a ten-day burial. He states that the grave had been guarded throughout, that he personally examined it and found no slightest evidence of trickery — and he’s an experienced investigator who knows all the tricks. The linen bag that shrouded the performer was almost entirely covered with a green mildew, the symptoms of a rigid trance were present — bloodless face, teeth set so tightly they had to be pried apart with a knife, body as cold as ice, no discernible heart action detectible by an attending physician.[2]

“Price thinks that the man may have used some narcotic or alkaloid to help induce the trance, although I suppose it might be argued that anyone who would let himself be buried for ten days where no help could possibly reach him in time, if anything went wrong, is so mad that his catalepsy is undoubtedly due to schizophrenia or some such mental derangement. But, except for the cataleptic coma, which they apparently induce at will, they show no other signs of that disease. Human hibernation—”

Flint stopped him. “For God’s sake! Human hibernation! If this is the beginning of a cheery and exhaustive treatise with lantern slides on Why People Are Bears, or the Economic and Social Aspects of Life in a Coffin, I’m going out to the box office now and demand a refund. Those cases are all ancient history, and, witnesses or not, at this distance we’ve no way of knowing how reputable they are. They sound like screwballs. Stop riding your hobby and get down to—”

“Well,” Merlini said, “that corn growing over the grave does sound a bit as if someone exaggerated some. But history isn’t as dead a subject as the police appear to think — especially not the history of premature burial and voluntary interment. Quickly, before my audience walks out entirely, I’m going to mention Rahman Bey. He’s what I was leading up to all along anyway. And the date, 1926, isn’t so ancient. You’ll find armloads of newspaper clippings documenting the case at the public library. It made headlines from here to the coast and back.

“Egyptian, Algerian, and a good bit of Hindu magic consists in the display of apparently supernormal physical feats — demonstrations of the fakir’s ability to withstand, or not to feel, pain when swords and knives are plunged into his body or when the flesh is exposed to flame, and demonstrations of voluntary control over such usually involuntary biological actions as the pulse rate and the circulatory system. The Mavlevee whirling dervishes, the Algerian sect of Aissauas, the Hindu fakirs, commonly practice such feats both in connection with religious rituals and among the street performers as entertainment.

“Rahman Bey was an Egyptian who came to this country and started a tour of Loew’s vaudeville circuit in 1926. He supported large rocks on his chest while they were smashed to bits with sledge hammers. He stuck hatpins and daggers through his cheeks and arms with nonchalant impunity. And he performed an abridged version of the burial-alive feat by having himself covered for eight minutes with a mound of sand.

“He opened in Boston, then came here to Loew’s State. The press department, deciding that a little publicity would be a welcome thing, called in the reporters for a special performance. Rahman popped into his trance, then into a watertight coffin which medical men admitted could not contain enough air to sustain life for more than two or three minutes after being hermetically sealed. But Rahman stayed in for twenty-one minutes while it was submerged in a swimming pool. He surprised the doctor in attendance by coming out alive, smiling, and without showing any signs of the carbon dioxide poisoning that is the first stage of asphyxia. He claimed that his cataleptic trance obviated the necessity for any breathing at all. This, naturally, got him the desired free newspaper space in gratifying quantities, and also that press agent’s dream — a controversy. One, at that, with a man whose name insured the story page-one position.

“Harry Houdini, because Rahman claimed supernatural rather than merely extra-normal powers, stated flatly that none of Rahman’s stunts were the least bit unusual. He called attention to the fact that they were old and quite standard side-show acts, feats that almost anyone could duplicate after a little practice — and without any trance. The side-show performers who did the same things never seemed to require one as Rahman did, but depended on the use of little-known but quite ordinary scientific principles.

“Houdini made no especial mention of the burial stunt, and, since this wasn’t exactly a run-of-the-mine side-show exhibit, Rahman challenged him to duplicate it. Just to make it harder, he promptly repeated the underwater burial, in the Dalton Hotel pool on West 59th Street, this time staying down for a full hour and getting bigger and blacker headlines than ever. When anyone challenged Houdini in his own bailiwick, that was news. What’s more, the physician in attendance declared that the self-induced cataleptic trance was genuine.

“Houdini had to put up or shut up. He put up. Two weeks later, August 5, he was sealed in a galvanized iron casket and lowered beneath the surface of the Hotel Shelton pool. If he used any trance, it was a conscious one because his assistant, James Collins, was in constant telephonic communication with him, checking every few minutes on his state of health. He smashed Rahman’s record into smithereens, bettering it by a full half-hour for a total time of one hour and thirty-one minutes.

“He announced then that he had used nothing any more occult than a technique he termed ‘shallow breathing.’ This consisted in lying perfectly still, using a minimum amount of energy, a great deal of will power, determination, and nerve, breathing as slowly and infrequently as possible so that the air in the coffin lasted many times longer than any of the theoretical experts had thought possible. Houdini Bey, the papers headlined, Puts Fakir on Ice.

“The reporters naturally went after Rahman, caught up with him out in Wilkes-Barre where his tour had taken him by now, and asked him what about it. His claim that he could exist for an hour without breathing at all had been pretty thoroughly deflated and his cataleptic trance, in spite of the doctor’s seal of approval, looked like excess baggage. Rahman promptly countered by offering to stay thirty minutes in a coffin which was not airtight, but something worse — one that would have an intake attached to a motor-car exhaust supplying a steady inflow of carbon monoxide! Provided, of course, that Houdini would do the same. It sounds like something Rahman’s press agent thought up. In any event I’ve not heard that he’s ever tried such a stunt. Collins and Hardeen, Houdini’s brother, say that Houdini never received this challenge, but that his answer would have been, ‘Okay Rahman, but you do it first.’

“And there, just as the death-defying game of follow the leader began to get really interesting, it stopped. Rahman had no reason to carry it further — and probably good reason not to. The publicity he’d received prior to Houdini’s burial had secured him a $1500-a-week contract.”

Merlini showed no sign of stopping now that he’d got well under way, and Flint cut in. “So what?” He pointed to the grave. “This guy wasn’t in any coffin at all, and he was four feet underground. There’s one hell of a lot of difference.”

“Yes,” Merlini said. “But not the sort you think. I’m coming to that. Two months later Houdini died. The following January, the demand for fakirs on the Loew circuit apparently exceeding the immediate supply, another was shipped in from Egypt. A twenty-four-year-old young man named Hamid Bey — no relation; Bey is a title. He was introduced as Rahman’s tutor and the master fakir of them all. He was booked into the State and, the day before he opened, he went over to Englewood, New Jersey, popped off into the much debated trance, and was buried, without coffin, five feet down before a crowd of two hundred witnesses, including a full quota of reporters. And, if you think I’m still spinning old wives’ yarns, all you need to do is look in the New York papers for January 21, 1927. It’s all there, complete with pictures that include cheesecake shots of a Spanish dancer, courtesy of Loew’s booking office, who relieved the tedium of the wait and gave the cameramen something to do by dancing a tango on the grave.”[3]

“Okay,” the lieutenant growled. “I’ll bite. How long did this groundhog stay under?”

After the build-up he’d given it, Merlini wasn’t going to miss this chance for a nicely timed dramatic pause. He flipped his shiny half dollar into the air once, caught it, and smiled quizzically at his hand as it slowly opened to show that the fifty-cent piece had melted in its customary mysterious manner into the very thinnest of air.

“Two hours and forty-five minutes!”[4]

Flint didn’t say anything audible, but he seemed to be muttering under his breath. The impression I got was one of profanity. Merlini continued.

“According to some of the papers, when Hamid had been disinterred and while he was still coming out of his trance, he smiled faintly and in a satisfied whisper said something that sounded like ‘Houdini.’ The controversy was wide open again, and, though some of the papers, more cautious than at first, had fun with picture captions like Hamid’s in de Cold Cold Groun’, they weren’t noticeably ready with explanations. The doctors present offered none either, and Houdini, who had been appearing nightly at half the spirit séances in the country (sometimes in two or more at once), was so strangely silent that even some of the spiritualists began to suspect it might be two other guys.”

The lieutenant shook his head stubbornly. “No,” he said. “It’s no sale. If you’re going to try to get me to believe that Hamid’s catalepsy was the real McCoy because Houdini’s hour-and-a-half record is the limit for shallow breathing—” Flint’s voice trailed off and he turned to Doctor Haggard as if just remembering his presence. He looked at him for a moment, then said slowly, “Self-induced catalepsy. Well, let’s have it.” There was a note of warning in his voice as he added, “And I don’t think I need to tell you that your opinion had better check with the others I’m going to collect.”

“And just what,” Haggard asked, “does that ominous remark mean?”

“Nothing, maybe.” Flint wasn’t very convincing.

“The word ‘catalepsy,’” Haggard began a bit uncertainly, “is a clinical description of a morbid state in which the patient lies motionless, unresponsive to stimuli, his pulse and respiration slowed, his skin pale. There is a waxy rigidity of the limbs which retain the various positions into which they may be put for a time. The cataleptic state is ordinarily involuntary, occurring in mental derangements — schizophrenia and hysteria. But it is closely allied — the exact distinction, if there is one, is vague — to autohypnosis. The hypnotist can produce cataleptic-trance symptoms in a good subject and the latter, with practice, could induce them in himself. There are a few cases on record. It’s not medically impossible, only rare.

“I suspect, though, that the fakirs, the reporters, and those doctors Merlini mentioned have been misusing the word. All the descriptions mention a very stiff rigid muscular state much more pronounced than the waxy flexibility that is usually indicative of catalepsy. It sounds much more like autohypnosis, although I don’t know that the distinction means a lot, since differentiating between them is largely a matter of definition. Due to the fact that it’s an unfamiliar thing which the layman, and a lot of M.D.’s for that matter, know little about, the fakirs pretend, and some of them may really believe, that it is something supernatural. Actually it is only abnormal. I might add that in crymotherapy, the new ‘frozensleep’ technique now being used in the treatment of cancer and schizophrenia, the patient remains in an insensible, cold-induced coma not very different from catalepsy sometimes as long as eight days.”

“All right, suppose I’m in a cataleptic coma,” Flint said, looking just a bit as if he wished he were. “How would that keep me from suffocating when I’m buried underground?”

“The lowered respiration rate,” Haggard answered. “Since it is reduced to an often indetectible minimum, a sort of super shallow breathing beyond anything that could be attained consciously, the subject would require an astonishingly small amount of air. But I doubt very much that either Rahman or Hamid Bey or any other fakir induced catalepsy in themselves to order several times a day every day on their vaudeville tours. You can’t play around with catalepsy or even autohypnosis quite as nonchalantly as all that.”

“And you don’t,” Merlini added, “when it’s quite unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary!” Flint exploded violently. “What the blazing blue hinges of hell are we talking about it for then?”

“I don’t know,” Merlini said. “You asked Haggard about it. I didn’t. Hamid’s three-hour burial doesn’t prove he used it. It was longer and more spectacular than Houdini’s hour-and-a-half underwater shallow-breathing record, but Hamid wasn’t by any means hermetically sealed. There would be considerable air in, and some seepage of air through, the loose dirt that was shoveled in above him. Voluntary, rather than trance-induced, shallow breathing could have turned the trick. If Houdini had been on deck, I suspect he’d have come forward, or rather gone down, to prove it.”

“But you said that the doctors present at Hamid’s burial admitted he was in a cataleptic trance,” Flint objected.

Merlini nodded. “I know, but most of these fakirs do seem to have one uncanny ability — they somehow always manage to pick out medical men who make sweeping assertions after only the sketchiest sort of examinations. The ballyhoo bug bites them — or something. Houdini had his examining physician take temperature, pulse, respiration, and blood-pressure readings before and after his burial. But all that the doctors examining Rahman and Hamid ever did was to note that rigidity was present, that the respiration was ‘low,’ and take the pulse rate.

“The rigidity, of course, proves nothing. Anyone can hold himself rigid during an examination. The stooges a stage hypnotist carries with his act do it all the time. Head on one chair, heels on another, they’ll let you stand on them. I’ll do that one for you myself, no hypnosis or catalepsy required. Actually Rahman’s and Hamid’s rigidity is even suspicious since the true cataleptic coma is not a rigid one at all.

“A low respiration rate is likewise meaningless. Anyone can breathe slowly, or even hold his breath and cease breathing altogether, during the few moments he is being examined. As for the pulse rate, Rahman’s, like Houdini’s, went up, which is not what you’d expect if the trance was bona fide. Hamid’s went down, from a normal 72 to 58. That effect could be produced either by autohypnosis or by purely mechanical means — pressure applied to the large artery of the arm shutting off the flow of blood. A hard object concealed under the armpit or a tight band of adhesive tape around the upper arm are the methods usually used.”

“But,” Haggard put in, “what if the reading were taken at the heart rather than the wrist? You can’t fake a low rate there.”

“No,” Merlini said. “That would tear it, unless the performer happened to be one of those abnormal and rare persons whose hearts fluctuate erratically. Or unless autosuggestion really was used. But Rahman and Hamid didn’t have to clear that hurdle. The medical examinations were so slipshod that faking was quite possible.”

“I wish to hell,” Flint said exasperatedly, “that you’d make up your mind. Did they fake it or didn’t they?”

“I suspect they did. If not, then they missed out on a swell chance to make the stunt really convincing. If they were using autosuggestion as claimed, they should have asked the doctors to roll up their sleeves and really go to town on the tests. They should have asked that the heart action be checked with an electrocardiograph, respiration with a basal-metabolism mask, and temperature with a clinical thermometer. That’s what I’d do if I wanted to impress the American Medical Association as well as the newspapermen. But I wouldn’t stay unconscious a bit longer than was necessary to cover the examination period. I’d come out of it but play possum, and go into the grave conscious so that I’d have some chance of sending out an SOS if anything went wrong. Once underground, I’d use the shallow-breathing method. The medicos couldn’t catch me at that unless they were buried alive with me.”

“That,” Flint said, eyeing both Merlini and Haggard with a disgusted look, “wouldn’t be a bad idea at all. So you want me to think that Garner is an Algerian whirling dervish who played dead, fooled Haggard, let himself be buried, stayed underground for an hour—”

“Yes. Hamid Bey’s three-hour burial makes Mr. Garner’s one-hour emulation of the hedgehog class as small potatoes. And Doctor Haggard not only had no reason to suspect monkey business in the form of self-hypnosis, but his examination was no more thorough than the ones Hamid and Rahman, underwent. Any doctor might have made the same mistake. I’m afraid it’s quite possible that Scotty may have seen just what he says he did, and that Garner may still be very much alive at this moment.”

Flint didn’t want to buy it at all. “You’ll certainly be way out on a limb it we find him dead. If he’s alive, I may have to admit he’s a shallow-breathing, human dormouse but I’ll bet I can explain Haggard’s diagnosis of death without any hypnotic cataleptic hocus-pocus. If Garner was just playing dead, then Haggard and I are going to the station for a nice little heart-to-heart talk.”

The doctor froze as if at the onset of one of the more rigid forms of trance. “Are you accusing me,” he asked coldly, “of perjury — of diagnosing death when I knew—”

“No, not yet. But I may. You gave me a signed statement certifying death, and if we find him alive—”

“But why would I insist that he was dead when it leaves me open to a charge of accessory after the fact to murder, assisting at an illegal burial, and God knows what else?”

“That’s easy.” Flint watched the doctor narrowly. “Maybe you knew the body had been taken from the grave and figured that we couldn’t make a charge stick without it. You said as much a while back. Remember?”

Haggard didn’t answer. We all turned to listen as we heard someone running through the woods, running toward us as it a horde of ghostly specters was close behind. It was the police officer who had earlier tried to stop the fleeing car.

“Lieutenant,” he reported with what can by no means be described as shallow breathing, “we found Dunning! In the garage. He didn’t take it on the lam in that car, but the guy who did gave him a nasty crack on the head and shoved him in one of the other cars out of sight.”

“Can he talk?”

“He did — some. But he passed out again. Tucker says Doctor Haggard better have a look at him right away.”

Flint turned to one of the men who had been digging in the grave. “Newman, take Haggard in. And don’t let him out of your sight. We’ll be along in a minute or two.”

As they started off the lieutenant faced the patrolman again. “What happened, Ryan?”

“Well, he says he ran out of cigarettes and went downstairs to bum one from the chauffeur. His room’s next to the garage in the basement. Leonard wasn’t there but Dunning finds a pack and then, just as he’s leaving, he thinks he hears somebody in the garage. He figures it’s Leonard and he goes in. There’s nobody there, but the garage doors are wide open and that looks fishy. He wonders if maybe somebody is getting ready to take a run-out powder and he looks in the cars to see if they’ve loaded any luggage. When he opens the door of Miss Wolff’s car and sticks his head in, there’s a guy inside who reaches up, grabs his throat, and bangs his head against the dashboard. That’s all he remembers.”

“Who was it? Didn’t he get a look at the man?”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know. Tucker’s just asking him that when he passes out on us again.”

Flint looked back at Merlini and myself. “Come on. We’re going in. Ryan, you—”

He stopped. Another man was running toward us from the woods, Tucker this time.

He started reporting before he had come to a full stop. “Lovejoy just phoned. He’s got the guy in the car! It smashed up on the Parkway.”

As he paused to catch his breath, Flint demanded, “Who—”

“The ghost,” Tucker answered, “and this time he really is dead!”

I had expected that, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what followed.

“Just what,” Merlini asked quietly, “makes the sergeant so sure his captive is dead?”

Tucker blinked. “What makes — Well, he said he’d shipped him in to the morgue, so I suppose—”

The lieutenant emitted smoke and flame like an incendiary bomb. “Ryan, bring this crowd in. And don’t lose any of ’em!” He started running toward the house.

Merlini said, “I hope that body’s still in the wagon when it arrives. If it can escape from a grave—”

Then he started running too.

Merlini’s dash after the lieutenant was short-lived. Ryan roared a command to halt. Merlini paid no attention. The policeman drew his gun and fired once in the air.

That got results. Merlini stopped and looked back. “Are you a good shot?” he asked.

“You just keep running,” Ryan promised. “You’ll find out.”

Merlini shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Hastily Ryan herded us back toward the house. I fell into step beside Merlini. “Got any more rabbits in your hat like that last one?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to look. We still need a few.”

I agreed to that heartily. “We certainly do. Your appealing theory that the haunt is the dead man himself doing a return engagement cancels out quite a few stickers. We don’t need to hunt for a lightning-change impersonator any longer, and it gives an explanation for Scotty’s story, the matching fingerprints, and most of the poltergeist tomfoolery — the smashed china, the transposed pictures, the spilled ink, the library books, the frightened servants. But just look at the ragged fringe of loose ends all around the edges.

“How, if he’s flesh and blood and not a bona fide wraith, did he smash that flower vase? There were witnesses that time and he wasn’t exactly visible. He may use a flashlight to outwit the burglar alarm, but it wouldn’t help him wriggle through locked doors the way he does. How did he vanish from Mrs. Wolff’s room quicker than you can say ‘Scat!’ or was Leonard lying when he insisted no one shinnied out the window? He could have gotten into the study with the key Wolff missed, but how’d he exit again after the shooting when I was watching the window and you guarded the door?

“For that matter, why’d he toss me into the drink? Unless he’s a homicidal maniac, it doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to liquidate a witness to the fact that he was hiding in the study, then why is he so careless with his fingerprints? Why does he leave so many of them everywhere anyway? It almost looks as if—”

“Go on,” Merlini said. “You’re doing fine. As if what?”

“As if he left them on purpose.” But I sounded doubtful.

“Well,” Merlini said matter-of-factly, “why not? Before we knew that the grave was empty, the prints seemed to offer the final proof that the ghost was the real thing. He might have planned that for Wolff’s benefit.”

I objected. “No, you’re slipping. Why would he leave them for Wolff’s benefit when the next thing he does is shoot Wolff? And how come, in that blamed photo, does he show up as transparent as a guppy? Or are you going to tell me that Lady Edgcumbe and General Lee’s mother could do that sort of thing too? Because if you are—”

“I’m not. Those are added wrinkles. But you’re being coy about the photo. You’re the boy who used to wear his Leica to bed. You can explain that one.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s just a common garden variety of double exposure, the kind all beginners make when they forget to wind their film between shots. Galt had set up the camera and left it loaded, aimed, focused, and unguarded. Mr. Ghost floats in, clicks the shutter, and puts a shot of the background on the film. The light from the photoflood bulb in the upper hall would have served nicely. He goes upstairs, unscrews the bulb in the corridor, and waits for his cue. Then, when he makes his little bow, I click the shutter again, and the shot of him that I get overlays the background that’s already on the film, giving us a phantom view. He certainly took pains to give Wolff a scare. And why? More blackmail?”

Merlini nodded. “Looks that way. Wolff was shying frantically from unfavorable publicity. He thought he’d killed a man, and he’d tried to cover up by burying the body. Can you think of any better blackmail material?”

“No,” I said. “Don’t think I can. But, if he goes to all that trouble to blackmail Wolff, why does he shoot him? There’s no point in that. And, even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t leave Wolff a spirit message demanding that he put the money in unmarked bills of small denomination on the gravel. Spooks aren’t troubled by the rising cost of living; it’s a contradiction in terms. Wolff would have smelled rats. If he should suspect that the ‘dead man’ is alive it upsets the whole scheme. And if the dead man stays dead, how does he collect?”

Merlini wasn’t very helpful. All he would say was, “You’ve talked yourself into a lovely dilemma there, haven’t you?”

I gave him a suspicious look. “Meaning that you know the answer?”

“I wasn’t meaning anything,” he evaded. “I was just commenting.”

“All right, comment on this. From the highhanded confident way you’ve been carrying on, I think you know who the zombi is. How am I going to write your memoirs if I never get told anything? Who is he?”

“Ross, you fire questions about as fast as a late-model machine gun. I’m punch drunk. Who do you think he is?”

“I know who he’s not. I’ll give you two to one he’s nothing as ordinary as a detective named Garner, not if he’s the cataleptic-trance expert you say.”

“I won’t take the bet,” Merlini said. “That beard of his never did fit the Garner picture anyway. It’s not exactly what the well-dressed dick wears these days. Even false whiskers went out of style some time back.”

“And,” I added, “if he’s not Garner, then the identification Wolff found on him was either phony or—” I paused, not liking the alternative that presented itself.

Merlini gave me a quick sideways glance. “Or what?”

“Well, when you consider the bloodthirsty habits our zombi has, I’m wondering where the real Mr. Garner is and what the state of his health may be at the moment.”

Merlini’s voice told me that he had also thought of the possibility. But all he said was, “Don’t count your corpses before you come to them.”

I disagreed. “Why not? It’s less of a shock to expect them than to run into them suddenly. And stop evading me. If the mystery man’s not Garner, who is he?”

“I don’t know, Ross. Cross my heart. But I’ll bet you a nice new coffin your size that he’ll turn out to be a professional fakir who has or once had an act featuring the burial alive. And I’ll throw in a ‘Gates Ajar’ floral wreath if Francis Galt doesn’t know who he is.”

“Galt?”

“Yes. I rather thought from the uneasy way he acted at the time that he recognized the figure in the spirit photo. Now I’m sure of it. As part of his psychic research Galt keeps a weather eye on such performers.”

“So,” I said suspiciously, “and that brings up the question: Why has he been keeping it mum?”

I got my answer to that one in just about ten seconds flat. As we entered the house again we found Francis Galt in the hall just outside the library door. Beyond it Lieutenant Flint’s voice could be heard boiling into a phone.

Galt looked at us uncertainly, his shrewd gray eyes round behind their spectacles. His hands made nervous half-finished gestures.

“The grave was empty?” he asked.

“How,” Merlini replied, “did you know about that?”

“I helped put Dunning to bed. He’s not fully conscious, but he’s talking. I gathered that he seems to think it was the ghost that hit him, and that the ghost is that of a man he helped bury. Also the lieutenant seems upset.”

“He’s going to be even more upset,” Merlini said, “when he discovers that you’ve known all this time who the ghost is, but denied it. All I need to do now to find that out is phone a few booking agents. It might be simpler all the way around if you told us.”

Galt gave him a sharp glance. “Apparently you’re getting warm. Yes, I’ll tell you. I was intending to tell Lieutenant Flint as soon as he was free.”

Galt drew an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and took out several newspaper clippings. He started to hand them to Merlini just as Flint, coming through the doorway behind him, said, “I’ll take those.”

I managed to glimpse a few headlines as the lieutenant spread the clippings out.

There was a half-tone cut with one story that showed a white-robed figure being lowered into a hole in the ground. Another was a close-up of the performer’s face. Zareh Bey’s dark-eyed, bearded features were the same as those in Galt’s phantom portrait.

The glare Flint aimed at Galt could have been used for smashing atoms. “And why haven’t I seen these before now?”

“I just got them,” Galt explained nervously. “I phoned, had my assistant get them from the files and send them out by messenger.”

“Why have you been denying all along that you knew who the ghost was?”

“I wasn’t sure. You’ll notice that the dates on those clippings are all nine or ten years back. I haven’t looked at them since I filed them. I didn’t want to make any sensational statements that might not be true.”

Hint glared at him a moment longer. Then he said, “Stick around. I’ll want to see you. Tucker, bring Merlini and Harte in here.” He went back into the library.

When the door closed he scowled darkly at Merlini and said, “I’ve just had a report from the FBI. They never heard of anyone named Garner. So that’s that. The identity card he had was a phony. And you think he’s an Algerian whirling dervish who egged Wolff into socking him one, popped off into his suspended-animation song and dance, and let himself be buried alive, all so Wolff would think he’d killed a man and be on the spot for some really high-powered blackmail. Is that it?”

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Merlini said. “But it may not be as farfetched as you’re trying to make it sound. Wolff’s temper was notorious and dependable. Getting a rise out of him was a cinch. Most people didn’t even have to try very hard. Zareh Bey, waiting for the blow, rolled with it. If his repertoire included Hamid’s stunt of having boulders smashed with a sledge hammer on his chest, he’d know how to take a punch in the jaw without—”

Then Flint popped a question that the catechism I’d thrown at Merlini hadn’t included. It was a honey. “And how,” he wanted to know, “did Mr. Bey plan to squirm out from under four feet of earth? Is he an escape artist too?”

“I think,” Merlini said slowly, “that if it had been me I’d have made arrangements to have someone dig me up.”

Flint nodded. “Douglass. This story of his about being scared is a little thick. And he was probably paid to take it on the lam too.” He started toward the door again. “I’ll find out or know—”

Merlini stopped him. “Wait, Lieutenant. If Scotty was cast in the role of digger-up, he’d have started his excavating a lot sooner than he did. He wouldn’t have had to go back to the house for a spade; he’d have had one ready. Zareh Bey wouldn’t take chances on an hour burial when a fifteen-minute one would do as well. Not unless we’re hunting a loony.”

“I don’t need to hunt loonies,” Flint came back. “You’re not making sense. If there was some other accomplice ready and waiting to dig into the grave right after the burial, it would have been empty when Scotty came back.”

“Yes,” Merlini agreed calmly. “It would unless the person who’d promised to do the digging happened to — well, forget about it.”

I blinked. There were more rabbits in the hat after all. They were parading out, two abreast!

“Forget,” Flint said suspiciously. “What do you mean forget?” The dawn was beginning to break over him as it was over me. But he wanted to hear Merlini say it. Merlini did, with trimmings.

“Perhaps I was being a bit generous. To put it bluntly, Zareh Bey’s assistant might have decided to make the fake murder genuine. By the exceedingly simple device of just leaving him there. That’s a murder device for the book. Get your victim to let himself be buried alive, then fail to dig him up! You kill him off merely by not doing something. It’s simple, neat, and, if the burial is secret, about as sure-fire as they come.”

Flint scowled at him. “You’re certainly not making this case any simpler. If you’re right I don’t think I care for the way someone’s mind works.”

“I know I don’t,” Merlini added. “Think how Zareh Bey must have felt, especially if he came out of his trance and was using the shallow-breathing method. Four feet under, going through a nerve-racking feat of endurance that demands absolute calm and freedom from fear. Then, as the minutes go by, he begins to realize that something has gone wrong, that he has, perhaps, trusted someone far too much.” Merlini shivered. He picked up the clippings Flint had placed on the table and glanced through them.

“You know, Lieutenant,” he added, “I don’t think I much like the shape of things to come. If Zareh Bey is playing possum now, if he escapes from that ambulance, if he should get to someone before we know who, we might very well have another corpse on our hands. And there won’t be anything phony about it either.”

That gave me an idea. “Perhaps,” I said, “that’s what has already happened.”

Flint gave me a nervous look. “That means what?”

“Item one: Zareh Bey returns from the grave with blood in his eye and revenge in his heart. Item two: Dudley Wolff was murdered. One and two make three.

But no one paid any attention to my theory. Merlini made a sudden exclamation and passed one of the clippings he held to Flint.

“You missed something,” he said. “Our friend Galt is certainly a lot of help. Now we’ve not only got to show that Zareh Bey wasn’t dead when Haggard examined him, we’ve also got to prove he wasn’t dead when he first appeared in that study — before Wolff ever hit him! The ghost walks again!”

Flint stared at the clipping openmouthed. I got a look and did the same.

The item, from a New York paper, consisted of a long list of names in caps. Halfway down one name was ringed with blue pencil. It was Zareh Bey’s. The dateline at the top was September 8, 1934. The headline read: Dead in Morro Castle Fire.

The library door opened, but no one looked around.

Then Sergeant Lovejoy’s voice said, “What’s all this about the ghost not being dead? He’s got an arm broken in two places, enough lacerations to kill three men, and a skull cracked open wide enough to drive a truck through. He’s dead all right!”

“Sergeant,” Merlini said, “you have no idea how dead he is.”

What we all needed at that moment more than anything else was a week or two in bed in a quiet secluded sanitarium with no visitors allowed. Instead we got Lovejoy’s story. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, soothing.

He gave it to us rapidly. “That drive out front is so damn full of curves that I couldn’t see which way the car we were following turned when it hit the Post Road. I stopped cars from both directions, found a guy who’d seen the Cadillac heading toward Mamaroneck, and got going again. Then I checked at Nichols’s gas station and they’d seen him make the turn into Barry Avenue on two wheels. That looked like maybe he was aiming for the Parkway, so I did the same. There wasn’t much chance of overhauling him because he didn’t have to stop to ask questions like I did, but I was hoping somebody might nab him for speeding. On the Parkway I turn toward New York figuring that was the best bet and—”

“Look, Sherlock,” Flint cut in impatiently, “skip the deductions. Just tell me where he smashed up and how.”

“It was a couple of miles the other side of Mount Vernon. The alarm you sent out had a Parkway cop waiting at the toll gate at the bridge. Garner sees him eyeing the license numbers, steps on the gas, and shoots through without paying his dime. The cop lit out after him. He says he had his bus up to its limit and was losing ground when the Cadillac suddenly begins to slow up. Then, just as he is pulling up even and for no reason at all it’s on a straight stretch — the car edges over and starts cutting across the eastbound lane. There are two cars coming. The first just manages to duck him, but he sideswipes the next and then crashes head on into a lamppost.

“He’s still hitting at least sixty when this happens and Garner doesn’t stop as sudden as the car does. He takes a header into the windshield. They’ll be a week picking out the glass. He’s dead all right.”

Flint riffled through the newspaper clippings, found the one that bore Zareh Bey’s picture, and handed it to Lovejoy. “He look anything like that?”

The sergeant nodded at once. “Yeah, that’s him.” He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and started to remove the card it held. “And I had ’em take his prints as soon as we—”

Tucker stepped forward, snatched the fingerprint card from his hands, and put a magnifying glass on it all in one movement.

Flint looked over his shoulder. “How long’ll it take you to check—”

“They’ll check,” Tucker said gloomily. “I’d know these prints in my sleep I’ve seen enough of ’em. They’re the ghost’s.”

Flint sat down. He looked tired and his voice was discouraged. “First he introduces himself as Smith. Wolff socks him. Haggard pronounces him dead. Then he turns out to have identification that says he’s a dick named Garner. They bury him. He won’t stay in his grave. He comes back and haunts the joint. Then he gets killed again.” Flint looked at Lovejoy. “And you identify him as Zareh Bey, an Algerian whirling dervish who’s been dead eight years. The hell with it.”

Lovejoy’s jaw dropped. “Dead eight years? An Algerian whirling—” He shook his head dazedly. “I don’t get it.”

“Who does?” Flint said. “Find anything on him?”

Lovejoy, still blinking, said, “What? Oh, yeah. Sure. I found plenty.”

He took several handkerchief-wrapped parcels from his overcoat pockets, placed them on the table before Flint, and opened one.

“Billfold,” he said, “but no identification. Small change, pencil, handkerchief, that sort of thing. And two flashlights.”

One was an expensive model streamlined in blue plastic. Lovejoy picked up the other, a cheap dime-store affair that had no glass covering its bulb. When he pressed the button it failed to light.

“Dent in the side, too,” the sergeant added. “And, if it matches those pieces of glass we found in the study, it proves he was there. Probably what he socked Harte with.”

Flint nodded and picked up the other light.

“That one’s Kay’s,” I said. “It’s the one she keeps in her car.”

Lovejoy opened a second parcel. “And this,” he said proudly, “puts the case on ice. It was in the glove compartment in the dash. It’s not loaded, but it’s been fired.”

It was the missing vest-pocket revolver. Its grip was a curved hollow shell of metal which, with the trigger, was folded in and forward along the underside of the cylinder. Flint straightened them out. The thing looked more like a gun then, a tiny freak of a weapon, its barrel hardly longer than the cartridges it fired. But there was an efficient deadliness in its compact design and in the cold glint of the metal that belied its toylike appearance.

“Prints?” Flint asked.

Lovejoy shook his head regretfully. “No. It’s been cleaned.” He unwrapped the other parcel. “But his prints are on this. It was in his coat pocket.”

A queer-looking object lay in the center of the handkerchief. An oblong block of metal with a hole running through it the long way was mounted on a rectangular steel frame that had screw holes at each corner. I saw what looked like a firing pin and a projecting triggerlike lever. Tied to the latter was a length of string which the sergeant unrolled, disclosing a small loop at its other end. The handkerchief also held five long-shanked metal thumbtacks of the sort that I had noticed were used to fasten the explanatory cards to the wall beneath the various exhibits in the gun room.

“The trap gun,” Flint said regarding the contraption with a jaundiced eye. He pulled back the firing pin and removed an empty cartridge case. “And it’s been fired. Somebody placed it on top of that bookcase where we found the thumbtack holes at just about the height of a man’s head. The string ran across the room and was tacked to the wall opposite. A nice thing to run into in the dark! When you hit the string you’re in line with the gun. And somebody did. But who? And when?”

The desk phone at his elbow rang as though it had been waiting the cue and gave him one of the answers. Flint, still scowling at the weapon, reached for the phone, talked a moment, scowled still more, and then replaced the receiver.

He glared angrily at the trap gun.

Merlini said, “Bad news?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Flint answered. “The medical examiner’s just had a look at the body. He wants to know what the hell a powder burn is doing on the left cheek!”

Merlini lifted an eyebrow. “Now that,” he said, “is interesting. I hope your medical examiner doesn’t walk into a trap too.”

Flint blinked. “What does that mean?”

“He might jump at conclusions. He might assume that those lacerations and the cracked skull were the sole cause of death. He might not do a full-dress autopsy. I’d like to know if there’s anything else that could have—”

“Anything else?” Flint’s surprise brought him up out of his chair. “Isn’t that enough? What—”

Merlini pointed a long forefinger at the trap gun. “That ominous gadget and the powder burn set off a positively explosive train of reasoning. It suggests that there has been a second attempt on Smith-Garner-Zareh Bey’s life. Or maybe we better just call him Smitty for short.” Merlini’s finger moved lip and pointed at Flint. “Suppose you’d tried to eliminate someone by not digging him up on schedule. Then, a week later, when you’re sure your victim is thoroughly dead, he pops up again pretending to be a spook. You don’t dare contradict him because he knows you tried to do him in. What would you do then?”

Flint’s eyes returned to the trap gun.

“Exactly,” Merlini said. “You’d buy another chance at him, before he has a go at you. But this particular victim has more lives than a cat. The trap gun misses too. And then—”

“That,” I broke in excitedly, “does it! Wolff is it!”

Flint growled at me. “Wolff is what?”

“The guy who was supposed to dig Smith up. Look at the way the pieces go together. Smith returns from the dead, discovers Wolff has taken a powder, and pretends to haunt the place, knowing that the reported poltergeist phenomena will bring Dudley back from Miami on the run. It does. So Smith shows his face, makes it obvious he knows Wolff double-crossed him, and really starts to blackmail him this time. No wonder Wolff had the jumping jitters. And that’s how Smith, although pretending to be dead, could still collect. Wolff, the blackmailee, was the one who knew damn well the spook was phony.

“So Wolff tries again. He sets the trap gun. But Smith’s rabbit foot is working overtime. The trap gun’s not such a hot murder method anyway. A body wound with a .25 might not be too fatal. Wolff put the gun up on the bookcase aimed for the head and Smith, going into a dark and none too familiar room, has his hand out ahead of him. He trips the string before he’s quite in the line of fire. And then — well now he knows for sure how Wolff feels about him. Also he’s a bit fed up with being the clay pigeon all the time. So when Wolff arrives later to view the body, he lets him have it.”

“Okay,” Flint said with a complete lack of enthusiasm. “Go on. Then what? Where does Smith go from there? You and Merlini both insist that he didn’t leave that study by either of the only two possible exits. And don’t give me that walking-through-a-brick-wall gag again either.”

“Dammit!” I growled. “I don’t know how he got out. I don’t know what happened to Charlie Ross, the ‘Marie Celeste,’ or Judge Crater either. But something did. And Smith got out.” I pointed to the revolver. “The murder gun got out didn’t it? You can’t say it wasn’t in the study when Wolff was shot. And now it turns up on Smith. What more do you want?”

“I want,” Flint insisted stubbornly, “A way out.”

“There’s another little objection too,” Merlini said. “If Wolff was the one who tried to kill Smith by not digging him up, it would mean that he knew Smith was only playing dead. It would mean that the whole scene in the study a week ago was an act. How do you explain that? Why, in heaven’s name, would those two be working together? A sensible answer and ten cents in stamps to cover handling charges gets you a kewpie doll, a screen test, and an all-expense-paid trip to the South Pole.”

Flint suddenly smacked his fist down on the desk and growled, “Harte, you shut up! Merlini, you stick to the subject. What about that autopsy? You haven’t said anything so far that—”

“I haven’t had a chance,” Merlini protested. “When Ross threw his pipe dream into the machinery I was about to point out that after someone has twice tried to kill Smith, the man with nine lives obligingly pops off in an ordinary run-of-the-mine traffic accident. It’s too much. It’s not in character. I smell mice. I want an autopsy.”

“But dammit, man,” Flint objected, “that car was ten miles away, traveling at sixty per, the windows closed, a cop in pursuit! How the hell can you get dirty work at the crossroads out of that? Your imagination is working overtime.”

“Maybe,” Merlini nodded. “But just the same I wish you’d hint to that medical examiner that you’d like a toxicological report.”

“A toxi—” Flint gaped. We all did. Then, slowly, he added, “Poison — a slow one that would hit him after he’d left, while he was driving—” His hand reached out for the phone.

“Or,” Merlini added, “a narcotic. Or even a steering gear that had been tampered with. We should take a good look at that car too.”

Flint was already barking a number at the operator. Then, tangling his metaphors, he said, “If you’ve got any more rabbits like that one up your sleeve would you mind breaking them gently? Hello! George? Look, tell Doc I want the works on that traffic-smash victim. A complete autopsy with toxicological report. Yes, that’s what I said. And soon.”

He slammed the receiver back into place and stood up. “Sergeant, I’m going to take a look at that car with Mastermind here. I’m leaving you in charge.” He glanced at me. “And see that no one else tries to lam before we get back. Surround the damn place.” He started for the door.

I protested quickly. “Lieutenant, come off it. I’m going along. I’ve got a story to write. Besides I can’t be the guy who didn’t dig the zombi up—”

“No?” Flint shot back. “You were out here that night.”

“But I couldn’t have set the trap gun. Someone’s been with me every minute tonight except—”

“Except when you were in the study!”

“No, dammit, not then. When I was in the water. Smith was in the study when I was.”

“Maybe that’s when you poisoned him then.” Flint opened the door. “And Sergeant, see that he doesn’t phone any newspapers. Come on, Merlini.”

I turned to Merlini, hoping for some assistance. I didn’t get it. He hadn’t even been listening.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “I suppose it’s too late to keep the traffic accident and Smith’s death under cover?”

Flint stopped and looked back. “Yeah. Way late. It’s on the wires by now. Why?”

“But you could give orders that none of your men mention it out loud, that no papers come into this house, and that the lighting system blows a fuse or something so that none of the radios hereabouts will function?”

Flint scowled. “I don’t get it.”

“The war-of-nerves technique,” Merlini said. “The person who’s tried so hard to kill Smith is apparently scared pink at having him above ground. If there’s no news of any traffic smash, if he thinks attempt number three has failed too, if he thinks Smith is still all in one piece and able to talk, he’s not going to rest easy in his mind. I like my undiscovered murderers scared when possible. They’re more likely to make missteps.”

Flint thought it over. He looked at me. “Harte knows,” he said.

“Yes, but he didn’t shoot Wolff.”

“Okay, maybe not, but that means Smith did. And how do you get Smith and the gun out of that study after the shooting if you both keep insisting that—”

“Smith?” Merlini said. “Oh, I know how he got out. Come on.” He moved quickly past Flint and vanished through the door.

The lieutenant said a few things that seldom see print, and added, “Lovejoy, you heard him. Do what he said. Don’t let the others hear about the accident.” Then he too was gone. The door slammed behind him.

I looked at the sergeant. “Hold your hat,” I said. “The sleight of hand has begun to commence.” I started out too.

Lovejoy stepped in front of me. “But you’re not doing any of it. Sit down.”

“Look,” I protested, “you heard Flint admit I didn’t shoot Wolff.”

“I heard him tell me to see that you stayed put. You’re not leaving this room. Tucker, put a man on both these doors, find out where everybody else is, and make sure the boys outside aren’t asleep.”

Tucker nodded and went out. Lovejoy gathered up the two guns and followed.

I sat down and thought. There wasn’t much else I could do, not unless I could dope out how Smith had escaped from the study. I could use that. I tried to remember everything I’d ever heard Merlini let drop on the subject of escapes. I couldn’t think of a single method that would apply to this case. Even Houdini used to work in a cabinet so that the audience couldn’t see how the trick was done. But an audience didn’t seem to cramp Smith’s style. I was watching the window and Merlini the door. Yet he escaped as neatly as Houdini had ever done and without either of us catching the faintest glimpse of him as he went.

I gave that up and did some thinking about Merlini’s suspicion that the traffic accident was not everything it was cracked up to be. If he was right, it meant that Smith was not the only one who knew a thing or two about the fancier grades of hocus-pocus. But that was damn little help. Almost everyone in sight did.

Galt was an authority on mediumistic trickery. Mrs. Wolff had been a medium. Dunning, who probably wrote up the reports of Wolff’s psychic investigations, would know plenty. Phillips, Kay had said, was a detective-story fan; there was no telling what peculiar murder methods he’d know about. Doctor Haggard was an expert on death and its causes; ditto for him. Leonard was a question mark until Flint’s check on his background came in. I looked at the collection of books and periodicals concerning spiritualism that filled the library shelves. Even Kay — but she was out. I knew that.

I got out pencil and paper and tried listing alibis. That didn’t help at all. Anyone could have failed to dig Smith up. The cute part about killing someone off by not doing something was that it made the whole subject of alibis meaningless. And anyone, except possibly Doctor Haggard, could have set the trap gun in the study during the hour between the time it was last seen in the gun room and the time Merlini and I had arrived. As for the traffic accident, there was no point in speculating about that until we knew what had caused it.

I crumpled my notes, threw the paper in the wastebasket, got up, and went to the door. Kathryn knew all these people much better than I did. Perhaps, if I gave her a late news bulletin covering the events of the last hour, she might suggest a lead.

I discovered Ryan standing guard just outside. “Where,” he asked, “do you think you’re going?”

Sergeant Lovejoy had certainly taken his orders literally. I looked at Ryan for a moment without answering, then I remembered one escape method which, although it wasn’t one Smith could have used, might be useful.

“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I’ve just figured out how those vanishing acts were done. I’m going to try it. I’ll send you a post card.” I slammed the door quickly, rattled the key in the lock without turning it, and then flattened against the wall at one side.

It worked. When Ryan, thinking the door was locked, threw himself against it, he catapulted into the room and took a beautiful nose dive. I was halfway up the stairs before he had finished picking himself up. I turned left at the top, ducked quickly into Kay’s room, and closed the door gently behind me. She sat by the window on a chaise longue with a breakfast tray across her lap.

“You might knock,” she said. “What—”

“Quiet!” I warned. “The gendarmes and I are having a game of hide-and-seek. The sergeant takes his orders too literally, and I wanted to see you.”

The commotion in the hall outside was frantic. I swiped a piece of Kay’s toast and dropped on the floor behind the bed just as someone banged on the door.

“Miss Wolff!” It was Lovejoy’s voice. He sounded angry.

“If it’s subscriptions he’s selling,” I whispered, “you don’t want any.”

Kay said, “Come in.”

The door opened. “You see anything of Mr. Harte?” the sergeant asked.

“No,” Kay answered truthfully enough. “I don’t. Have you lost him?”

Lovejoy, having had his look around, didn’t answer. The door slammed.

I came out of hiding. “Can you spare a hungry man a cup of coffee? I’d almost forgotten there were such things as meals.”

She poured me a cup. “There’s bacon and eggs too, that is if you talk. You act as though you didn’t have a care in the world. But Sergeant Lovejoy doesn’t. What’s happened? Why—”

“He’s just obeying orders. Flint’s still pretending he suspects me, but I think it’s just a gag to keep me from talking to editors. Wolff’s murder is solved and I’ve got an alibi for—”

“Solved?”

“Yes.” I gave her the whole story — all of it, including the traffic accident. “The thumbtack holes and the bullet in the wall,” I finished, “place the trap gun in the study. The powder burn on Smith’s face and the fact that he had both the trap gun and the murder gun when he smashed up proves that he was there. All we need to know is how he does his disappearing acts. And Merlini says he knows that. Smith is the murderer.”

Kay frowned. “But Ross, if someone has been trying to kill him, if Merlini’s right about the accident, then — then there are two murderers. The very moment you decide that A is the murderer, you discover that he has been killed by B. I don’t like it.”

“I know. Neither do I. It’s a pretty high percentage of lethal-minded persons to show up in such a damned small handful of suspects. But one murderer won’t do. If the person who’s been trying to get Smith’s scalp also shot Wolff, that would put two vanishing experts in the study. I’ll swallow one, but not—”

I stopped. Somewhere in my head an idea had stirred. Something clicked into place with something else. I concentrated, trying to hang onto it.

Kay was saying, “But if Merlini knows how Smith could have got out, someone else could have gone the same — Ross, what’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t listening. She could have confessed to murder and I wouldn’t have paid any attention. My idea had suddenly risen and burst like a giant skyrocket.

“I’ll — be — damned! Kay! There is only one murderer and I know—” I stopped again, thinking furiously, trying to sort out the flood of possibilities that poured down upon me. I didn’t hear the door behind us open.

“You know who?” Kay was so excited she stood up, completely forgetting the breakfast tray that was across her lap. Its contents fell across the floor.

“Yes,” I said. “I know who’s been trying to get Smith and who shot Wolff. I know—”

“That’s fine,” Sergeant Lovejoy growled. “Who did?” He glowered at me from the doorway.

“Go away,” I said. “Solve your own cases. I’m busy.” I forgot about him. “Kay, this is the pay-off. I only need one thing more. I’ve got to dope out how Smith did his vanishing act. Flint’s not going to like the answer unless I can—”

“He’s not going to like it unless you get started downstairs, either,” Lovejoy broke in heavily. “Both of you. He’s back and he wants everybody—”

Then, all at once, I saw it. As soon as I’d really accepted the fact that Smith had not killed Wolff, the answer jumped at me.

I felt like celebrating. In fact, I did celebrate. I kissed Kay.

“We’ll put the clinch in right here,” I said. “This is the last-act finale.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. It’s all over. From here on we can relax. Come on.”

But I was wrong about that. The atmosphere that we walked into when we entered the living-room downstairs was anything but relaxing. It was the tense, foreboding sort that precedes a thunderstorm.

Everyone was there. Mrs. Wolff, wearing a deep-blue hostess gown that gave her a Lady Macbeth appearance, sat stiffly erect in a high-backed chair before the fireplace. She watched Flint with cold dislike. Behind her, Doctor Haggard leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in his pockets, and an unlighted cigarette between his lips. His calm confident manner had been replaced by a glum scowling one. Francis Galt on the other hand was reacting oppositely. Usually fidgety and nervous, he now stood quietly near by, motionless except for an occasional quick movement of his eyes behind their thick round spectacles.

Dunning was there too, sitting limply in another chair, a white bandage around his head. He looked tired and his pale face was whiter than ever. Douglass, Phillips, and Leonard stood on the right against the wall. Scotty was as uneasy as ever, and worried wrinkles disturbed even the usually unruffled surface of the butler’s professional poker face. Leonard, oddly enough, was the only one of the lot who seemed to be at ease and who was not staring at Flint with a taut, wary intentness. He was, instead, watching the others with careful sidewise glances.

Tucker and Ryan stood by the door to the library looking official but worried. Merlini lay back in a low armchair, his long legs thrust out, apparently asleep. I would have given any odds that he was nothing of the sort.

From the center of the room a disgusted, angry, and belligerent lieutenant faced the group before the fireplace. He was issuing storm warnings. “Somebody,” he said, “has been lying like blazes. So we start all over. I’m going to take you one at a time and hear those stories again. And I’m going to keep doing it until somebody slips. Leonard, you’re first. In the library.”

The chauffeur hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, turned, and moved toward the library door. Ryan opened it and waited for him to go through. Flint stood a moment as though waiting for someone to say something. No one did. Then he crossed the room. Just as he reached the doorway and was about to go through, Merlini came to life.

“Lieutenant,” he said quickly, opening his eyes, “just a minute.” He sat up slowly as Flint stopped and turned. “There’s something that I want to say before you—”

Then it happened. On the opposite side of the room, just on the edge of my vision, something white moved. I jerked my head around. On the table, between the windows that overlooked the Sound, a Venetian-glass vase holding white narcissus had been standing. Now, and no one was within fifteen feet of it, the vase was unaccountably toppling forward.

The brief moment during which it tipped through its downward arc and then fell to shatter on the hardwood floor seemed endless. No one moved to catch it. No one was within miles of being near enough.

Another long utterly silent moment followed. Then Flint snapped out of it. “All of you,” he commanded, “stay exactly where you are!”

He ran across the room and bent above the flowers and the fragments of glass. Then he straightened and quickly examined the table top, making exploratory motions with his hands over it and along the wall. Tucker moved forward and joined him.

Flint found exactly what I was afraid he would find — nothing. But Tucker, a moment later, was more successful. I was afraid of what he found too.

He stood up suddenly. “Phillips, these flowers aren’t the same ones that were here earlier this morning. When’d you change them?”

“It was a little over an hour ago.”

“How much over? I want to know exactly.”

Merlini answered. “It was nearer an hour and a half. I saw him carrying the vase into the living-room shortly before the lieutenant and I left the house.” He looked at the three-cornered fragment of glass Tucker was holding between thumb and forefinger. “What is it? Fingerprint?”

Tucker didn’t answer. Instead he asked Phillips, “Was the vase washed when the flowers were changed?”

The butler nodded. “Yes, it was.”

This answer seemed to hit Tucker hard. He stood there for a moment without speaking, staring blankly at the glass in his hand.

Then Flint said, “Well, let’s have it. Whose print—”

Tucker’s answer was barely audible. The bottom had dropped out of his voice completely.

“It’s Smith’s,” he said.

The man who refused to stay dead, the man whose body had been lying on a cold slab at the morgue for nearly three hours, was back again.

Just when I thought I had found a silver lining in the cloud, the damned thing exploded thunder and lightning. I had been ready to guarantee my solution free from all supernatural impurities and had been sure that it would even meet the lieutenant’s specifications in that respect. I had exorcised the ghost completely, and, in the next moment, he was right back again just as lively as ever — and twice as dead!

All my answers, as far as I could see, were still good except that none of them would explain what had just happened. I knew how Smith had vanished both from Mrs. Wolff’s bedroom and from the study. But, even if he were still alive, those methods wouldn’t begin to explain how he could have come unseen into this room and tipped over that vase. They certainly wouldn’t explain it if he were dead. And worse, even if I disregarded the fingerprint, I saw no way anyone else could have managed it. That included the murderer. I couldn’t even see why the murderer would want to do it.

The one thing I did know was that I was not going to let a ghost come creeping back into my solution no matter what sort of fingerprint credentials he offered. He was, somehow, going to have to turn out to be the juggling trick he always had been. The thing to do was refer the matter to the technical expert in hocus-pocus, Merlini. It was in his department.

I turned and saw him making for the door to the hall. I caught him just before he went out.

“Just a minute,” I said. “Is Smith really dead this time, or isn’t he?”

“If he’s only pretending,” Merlini answered, “it’s as realistic a job of acting as I ever saw. We stopped at the morgue on our way back just now and had a look at most of him.”

“Most of him?”

“Yes. The medical examiner had removed a few pieces here and there for analysis.”

“And did you find out if his death was accidental or on purpose?”

“Well, there wasn’t anything wrong with the car that couldn’t have been caused by the smash, and the autopsy hasn’t turned up anything, so far at least, that contradicts an accidental death. The toxicological tests, of course, will take time.”

I saw Sergeant Lovejoy whispering in the lieutenant’s ear and nodding in ray direction. I knew what that meant.

“Time,” I said, “is something I’m not going to have nearly enough of. Are you still betting that there’ll be evidences of poison?”

Merlini hesitated. Flint’s voice came across the room. “Ross Harte. Come here!”

“Quick,” I said. “I’ve got to know.” Merlini shook his head. “I’m afraid that the medical examiner won’t find a single solitary trace.”

“Then you think it was accident after all?”

Flint’s voice came again. “Lovejoy, go get him!” The order was superfluous. The sergeant, apparently fearing that I might vanish again, was already bearing down upon me with decks cleared for action. “What,” Merlini asked, “have you done now?”

“I opened my mouth and put my foot in it.”

“Good,” he said. “Keep it there until I get one or two things attended to.” He turned and ducked quickly out through the door.

“Hey,” I said, “wait! I’m the one who needs rear-guard support.” But he was gone and Lovejoy had me by the arm.

“The lieutenant was speaking to you,” he growled.

“Yes. I heard him, but he didn’t say please.”

Lovejoy didn’t seem to know the word either. “Come on,” he said. “Pick up your feet.”

“Take him in the library, Sergeant,” Flint ordered. “And Ryan, you get Merlini. I want him in there too.” Lovejoy took me in, closed the door firmly, and proceeded to watch me as though I were the crown jewels. In the few minutes’ grace I had before Flint arrived I tried to think of some delaying action. I knew that Lovejoy had reported hearing me say that I knew who the murderer was, but I wasn’t as eager to confide in the lieutenant as I had been before that flower vase had dropped a nice fresh puzzle in my lap. Somehow I was going to have to stall him off, at least until Merlini appeared. I tried throwing a fast one in under his guard before he could open fire.

“Is this,” I asked, as soon as he came in, “where I get fitted for the handcuffs?”

“It might be,” he said flatly. “Are you confessing?”

“No, not yet. I’ve just turned up an alibi.”

“For what?”

“That flower vase out there. I was miles from it when it fell. You were a lot nearer yourself. You can’t hang that on me.”

“Don’t be too sure. Lovejoy says he heard you saying you know who the murderer is. Stop stalling and let’s have it.”

I shook my head. “I’ve changed my mind. I spoke hastily. I don’t know who the murderer is.”

The look Flint gave me was frostbitten. Without turning his head, he said, “Okay, Sergeant, take him in. He’s turned up something, or thinks he has. But if he thinks he’s going to save it for an exclusive press release, he’s got another think coming.”

Lovejoy moved toward me just as Ryan opened the door and stepped in. He had a worried look on his face, and he was alone.

Flint sounded a bit worried too. “Where’s Merlini? If you tell me he’s disappeared—”

Ryan shook his head. “No. He’s out in the kitchen. He says he wants you to come out there. I thought I’d better humor him.”

“You what?”

“Well, you see, he’s lighting cigarettes and throwing them all over the room. I think he’s gone nuts. I think you’d better come—”

Flint swore and started out. Lovejoy asked, “What do I book Harte on?”

“Withholding material evidence. No, wait. Bring him out here first. You may have to take them both in.”

Ryan’s description of what was happening in the kitchen was not exaggerated. Phillips stood just inside the door frowning uneasily as he watched Merlini light a fresh cigarette, take a few quick puffs on it, and then throw it with considerable force against the side of the refrigerator. It bounced off and rolled across the linoleum trailing sparks.

“But why so much, Phillips?” Merlini said as he stopped, picked the cigarette up, looked at it closely, and added it to a neatly aligned row of several others that lay in a dish on the table.

“Mr. Wolff was exceptionally fond of it, sir,” Phillips replied. “He ate it several times a day. Large portions.”

Merlini scratched a match and was applying it to still another cigarette when Flint asked, “What did Wolff eat so much of, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Merlini looked around. “Oh hello.” He held the new cigarette out in front of him, opened his fingers, and let it fall to the floor. He picked it up and did it again. Phillips looked as though he were glad to see us. I didn’t blame him.

Then Merlini answered both of Flint’s questions at once. “Dudley Wolff was an ice-cream addict. And I’m gathering experimental data for a learned dissertation on the inflammable characteristics of cigarette tobacco. You’ll be interested.”

“So far I’m not,” Flint objected. “What are you getting at?”

Merlini looked at the butler. “Thank you, Phillips. That will be all.” He waited until Phillips had gone out. Then he said, “My researches tend to indicate that your medical examiner is going to be considerably annoyed when all his laborious toxicological tests turn up an answer of zero.” He added the cigarette he held to those in the dish.

Flint was annoyed too. “Then you admit now that the smash was an accident?”

“I didn’t say that. I said that he wasn’t poisoned.”

“But you admitted there wasn’t anything wrong with that car. You even had the heater pulled apart. You didn’t find a damned thing. It has to be one or the other.”

“It is. And we did find something. The cigarette stub on the car floor.”

“All right. So what?” Flint took an envelope from his pocket, lilted the flap, and carefully rolled a cigarette out onto the porcelain table top. It was two thirds the length of a fresh one and there was a black tip of burned carbon at its end.

“Don’t you see anything queer about it?” Merlini asked.

Flint scowled at it. “It’s the brand Leonard uses, and it’s probably the one Dunning was smoking when he was knocked out. It fell to the car floor. But I don’t see—”

Merlini turned to me. “Ross?”

I looked at the cigarettes he had been experimenting with in the dish. There were seven of varying lengths. Smoke still curled upward from six of them. Except for that, they seemed no different from the one Flint had produced.

“I give up,” I said. “The floor’s yours.” Then, half afraid that he might go mysterious on us and hold out whatever it was that he had, I decided to jar it loose. “And stop acting like a quiz program. We’re rushed. The lieutenant’s waiting to hear me blow this case apart.”

“He’s waiting to hear what?”

“The solution. I’ve got it wrapped up, or I will have as soon as you prove Smith was murdered. If you can do that—”

“You know who shot Wolff?”

“Yes.”

“And how Smith vanished without benefit of trap doors?”

“That too.”

Merlini gave me a long penetrating look. “Congratulations,” he said, not sounding at all as if he meant it. “That’s fine. But you don’t know what’s wrong with this cigarette?”

“No. You can contribute that. Give.”

My confidence seemed to upset him a bit. He hesitated a moment, then said, “All right.”

He bent above the cigarette as though about to demonstrate some subtle and sensational point. Flint and I leaned over too. And Merlini crossed us up with one of his Bernard Shaw prefaces.

“Some critics of murder,” he said, “mistakenly suppose that undetectability is the sole criterion of the perfect crime. They give the highest award to the simple bash on the head of the first passer-by in the nearest dark alley. But many an unimaginative criminal moron has accomplished murder of that sort and successfully evaded detection. Far from being the perfect crime, it is a primitive, uncivilized, utterly inartistic procedure. The real connoisseur of murder demands artistry and imagination.”

I straightened up. “Stop cribbing De Quincey and get on with it.”

He ignored me. “The artistic murder would be one in which the murderer is a sane person with a definite motive. Ideally it should never be suspected of being murder at all. Or, failing that, it should utterly confound the most up-to-date efforts of the autopsist and all the prying devices of the laboratory specialist in their attempts to prove that it is anything other than death from natural causes or accident. It should, preferably, be accomplished by a remote-control method having all the stark simplicity of an axiom out of Euclid. And the device used should not only be self-working but self-effacing, equipped, as was the device that caused Smith’s death, with an automatic vanishing attachment that leaves not the slightest vestige of anything remotely resembling a clue.”

“Hey,” Flint cut in, “you said this cigarette—”

“I know. It is a clue. But artistically it shouldn’t count. It’s a purely accidental blemish on a perfectly planned crime. The one other thing a criminal needs, the thing this criminal didn’t have quite enough of, is luck. If Dunning hadn’t happened to be smoking when he was hit, there would have been absolutely nothing to blow the gaff. Aristotle, Einstein, J. Edgar Hoover, and Clarence Darrow working together couldn’t have proved that the traffic smash was not a legitimate accident.”

Flint glared at him and started to interrupt. Merlini hastened quickly to the point. “Cigarettes don’t go out as a pipe does the moment you stop puffing at them. If you’ve ever left one on your wife’s polished dining-room table you will undoubtedly have had the point called to your attention. They go on burning merrily until there’s nothing left but ash and a charred streak on the veneer. Like that one.”

He pointed to the shortest of the burning cigarettes on the dish. Less than a half-inch of it remained. All the rest was ash.

“That’s been burning for eighteen minutes by my watch. But a good two thirds of the one we found in the car is unburned. Its neat, unwrinkled condition clearly indicates that it was not stepped on or snuffed out in the usual manner. What extinguished it?”

“It was lying on the floor of the car,” Flint said. “When the car crashed—”

“No.” Merlini shook his head. “It took that car fifteen minutes to get from here to where it cracked up. If the cigarette had been burning all that time, there’d be little more than a half inch left.”

“Then it went out when Dunning dropped—”

Merlini shook his head again. “I don’t think so. That’s why I’ve been tossing lighted cigarettes around this kitchen like a pyromaniac. They don’t go out quite that easily.” He pointed at the one stub in the dish that was not burning. “That’s the only one I put out in seven tries. It landed, and with more force than Dunning’s would have, directly on its lighted end. The burning portion was completely dislodged. Compare it with the one we found in the car. The burned center core of carbon is still intact. Why didn’t it continue to burn? What put it out somewhere between here and Mount Vernon?”

Flint gave him a quick look. “Does this have anything to do with the car heater you were so interested in?

Merlini nodded.

“But dammit,” Flint objected. “The heater was turned on. It was feeding a stream of air back into the car. That would help keep the cigarette lit. This stub looks more as if it stopped burning because of a lack of oxygen.”

“It did. Add that to Phillips’s statement that Dudley Wolff liked ice cream so much that there’s always a gallon freezer of it on hand.”

I saw it then. “Packed,” I finished, “with dry ice!”

“Yes. Frozen carbon dioxide. Someone with a neatly ingenious turn of mind shoved several sticks of it into the car heater. Too much of the oxygen in the hot-air stream coming back into the closed car was combined with carbon in the molecular proportion of two to one. Carbon dioxide is noncombustible. When the percentage of C0₂ in the atmosphere is too great a flame can’t get enough oxygen. Cigarettes go out. So do people. Same reason.”

Lieutenant Flint, in the butler’s pantry, was already examining the freezer.

“And,” Merlini continued, “note the irony. Mr. Zareh Bey Smith, the shallow-breathing expert, the man who couldn’t be asphyxiated, met his death after all primarily because of a lack of good fresh air. Dry ice is so called because, in melting at normal temperatures, it skips the liquid stage and passes directly from a solid to gaseous state. There’s no residue. That’s the automatic vanishing attachment I mentioned. And the car heater not only hastened the melting but fed the gas in a steady stream back into the car.”

I asked, “Why did you say the medical examiner wouldn’t find any traces of poison?”

“Because I sneaked a look in his toxicology text while Flint was talking to him. I quote: It is not possible to demonstrate carbon-dioxide poisoning by means of any chemical tests on the dead body. And, in the second place—”

“It won’t do,” Flint said as he returned. “You’d need a concentration of about twelve percent carbon dioxide in the air in that car. That would take a lot more dry ice than that heater would ever hold. A bucketful might do it, but not—”

“This murderer didn’t need that much,” Merlini said. “The second reason that the medical examiner will find nothing is that Smith didn’t die from C0₂ poisoning. He died from injuries received in the smash. The murderer not only used a poison undetectable to any medical examination even in lethal quantities — he didn’t even use enough to kill! He only needed enough to make Smith lose control of the car. The first symptoms of too much carbon dioxide are giddiness and a marked somnolence. You can’t mix those with a speed of seventy plus. When you travel that fast you need to be wide-awake just to stay on the road. Even if Smith noticed that the air seemed stuffy and that he was feeling sleepy, he had other more urgent matters to occupy his attention, namely: the cop that was on his tail.

“Smith blinked, tried to keep his eyes open, failed for an instant or two, and crashed. The CO₂ dissipated when the car windows smashed. By the time anyone thinks to look in the heater, which we’d never have done anyway but for the accident of the cigarette, the dry ice has vanished into something as thin as, but more deadly than, air. I hope I never meet another murder device half as ingenious. Even if it fails, even if the victim isn’t in such an all-fired hurry, if he does have time to notice that something is wrong and opens a window, he’d never tumble to just what was wrong. He’d never know there: had been an attempt on his life. The murderer could try again and even use the same method.”

“All right,” Flint admitted doubtfully, “you make it sound good. But suppose I do take it? What have we got? One cigarette that might have gone out too soon and a hell of a lot of high, wide, and fancy guesswork. A defense attorney would have himself a picnic.”

He turned suddenly to me. “Harte, it’s your turn. What do you think you’ve got that tells you who the murderer is?”

“Motive,” I said, “and opportunity. Also a whole flock of answers to hard questions. The person who didn’t dig Smith up, the person who tried to get him with the trap gun, the person who did get him with the dry ice, the person who shot Wolff, and the one and only person who could have spirited that vest-pocket revolver out of the study is the one person we’ve consistently overlooked because—”

I stopped. My jaw must have dropped a foot. The one thing in the world I least expected happened. Merlini made a sudden wild dash for the kitchen door, pushed it open, and disappeared!

Flint and Lovejoy stared too for a split second, then jumped after him. Flint had his gun out by the time he reached the door. Outside, another door slammed.

Then Flint’s voice came back. “Put your hands up!”

When I got to the doorway I saw Merlini in the small dark hallway outside rattling the knob of a door that opened into the main hall. Flint’s gun centered on him, but he paid no attention to it.

“Eavesdropper,” he said. “Man I think. He jumped through here and turned the key in the lock.”

Flint hesitated. Then he tried the door.

“Go around through the dining-room,” Merlini suggested. “And point that gun in some other direction. Ross wasn’t talking about me. Hurry!”

But the lieutenant was still skeptical. “Watch him.” he told Lovejoy as he turned, pushed past me into the kitchen, and disappeared through another door.

I followed him through the butler’s pantry, the dining room, and into the hall. Mrs. Wolff, Doctor Haggard, Galt, and Tucker were still in the living-room, but the others had scattered.

The fingerprint expert bent above a paper on which he had neatly arranged the fragments of the flower vase.

“Tucker,” Flint growled. “Get those others back in here. And keep ’em here. Harte, you wait in the library.”

He came in a few moments later with Merlini and the sergeant.

“All right,” he said brusquely, “out with it. Who have we been overlooking? And why?”

The lieutenant’s mood was far from being as receptive as I could have wished. But there was no help for that now. I crossed my fingers, hoped that I’d get the support I needed from Merlini, and let fly.

“We’ve been overlooking the most likely suspect because all along she’s been altogether too obvious.”

“She?”

“Yes. Mrs. Wolff.”

I kept my eyes on Merlini as I spoke, curious to know what his reaction would be. It was a complete waste of time. A comment on the possible state of tomorrow’s weather would have brought better results. His face wore the same faintly surprised but thoroughly enigmatic look that it always does when he breaks an egg into the hat you’ve just loaned him and then shakes out an omelette or a couple of ducks.

Flint’s reaction was more pronounced. “Too obvious, hell! For one thing that dry ice wouldn’t have been put in the car very long before Smith made his break. She’s just about the only person who couldn’t have planted it. Haggard had her dosed with Luminal. He had a devil of a time waking her when we went in to question—”

“That’s what you think,” I said. “And I wonder if we couldn’t have the objections after you hear the story? Or would you rather read it in the papers?”

“Okay. Go ahead, but it’s going to have to improve as you go along.”

I gave it to him fast. “Item one: Mrs. Wolff used to be a medium. That’s how Wolff met her. That’s how she knew someone like Smith. Item two: Dudley Wolff was a dictator who had an uncomfortable habit of ordering people around. Mrs. Wolff, who is far too good-looking and too much Dudley’s junior to have married him for anything but his money, caught herself a millionaire and then discovered it wasn’t nearly as much fun as she thought. She wanted to cut loose, but she knew if she tried it by any of the usual means, the resultant and characteristic Dudley Wolff explosion would leave her without a nickel. Item three: The weak spots in Wolff’s armor plate were his abnormal fear of death and his necessity just now for avoiding any adverse publicity. With Smith’s aid she struck at both and put on the burial-alive act that had Dudley believing he’d killed a man. She supplied Smith with the negatives he flashed in front of Wolff, and the phony FBI identification was red herring so Dudley wouldn’t suspect their source. That was—”

“Just a minute,” Flint cut in. “Smith is Zareh Bey?”

“Sure. The Morro Castle death list doesn’t mean a thing. Anybody that turned up missing went on it automatically. Zareh Bey escaped, didn’t deny the report, and changed his name. I don’t know why. He may have been in a jam. Perhaps there were bill collectors on his tail. He hadn’t paid his income tax. There could be all sorts of reasons. The important thing is that he and Mrs. Wolff got together again and went to work on Wolff. And, somewhere along the line she decided that an accomplice can’t ever be fully trusted not to spill the beans. Maybe she knew that Smith was that kind of a guy, that as long as he lived the blackmail might boomerang. So she double-crossed him right at the start.

“She was either supposed to dig him up herself, or she pretended to arrange to have it done. Instead, she left him there. But Smith’s good luck when Scotty got curious and dug into the grave was her bad luck. Her attempted murder backfired with a loud and sickening thud. Smith knew what had happened, and was, understandably, good and mad. He ducked out at first, figuring that as soon as Scotty reported his find and Wolff examined the grave, the game would be up. But nothing happened. Wolff went off to Miami together with his wife. There was no explosion. Scotty had been scared and unwilling to admit poking his nose into something not his business.

“So Smith got busy. He began by scaring Scotty off completely to insure his silence. Then he enticed the Wolffs back with the poltergeist phenomena that he knew Dudley couldn’t resist investigating. When they arrived yesterday morning, he gave them both a lovely sock between the eyes by showing himself at the head of the stairs. He was a professional showman and he staged it nicely — a gradually accelerating build-up and then a smash first-act curtain.

“Dudley was jarred good and proper. He believed in ghosts and he thought he was seeing one of the man he had killed. The shock Mrs. Wolff got was even worse. She fainted, you remember. She knew it was no ghost. She knew that Smith had somehow managed to escape his grave and return in the flesh with blood in his eye. He vanished that first time by scooting through her bedroom, out the window, and down the trellis, outwitting the burglar alarm with the Merlini patented flashlight method.

“Then, sometime yesterday, he contacted Mrs. Wolff secretly, told her that he was going ahead with the blackmail scheme as originally planned except for one thing — from now on she’d take her orders from him. He could crack the whip because all he had to do if she didn’t behave was step out of his ghost role and give Wolff an earful.

“It’s a lovely situation. Neither of the two conspirators trust each other for a split second. They both realize that the other is quite capable of applying a double cross at the first chance. But they have to stick together or get stuck separately. Smith, however, is just a little too confident that he has Mrs. Wolff securely under his thumb. He doesn’t see that his neck is sticking out farther than a giraffe’s. He doesn’t realize that a man who is already thought to be dead and buried, killed by someone else, is a made-to-order murder victim! But Mrs. Wolff did.”

Flint was sitting up now and taking notice, Merlini’s poker face was still operating with its accustomed efficiency, but he didn’t look bored. Sergeant Lovejoy’s eyes were round.

“She played along with him for the moment,” I went on. “She clicked Galt’s camera shutter pre-exposing the film, put his flashlight and the photoflood bulb in the upper hall out of commission, and let Smith, when he came in through her window, into the study with the key she’d taken from Wolff’s key ring. He waited there for his cue to appear for the spirit photo that was to clinch his ghostly status in Wolff’s mind. And then, just when he appeared, there was a hitch. Mrs. Wolff discovered that Leonard was wandering around just below her window. Smith’s usual vanishing technique wouldn’t work. When he streaked back along the hall, she met him at her door, whispered, ‘Nix. Leonard’s outside.’ And there was only one place for him to go — the study. He vanished from the bedroom by the simple device of never going into it!”

Flint blinked. “And Mrs. Wolff was firing at—”

“Nothing. That was the cover-up. It was misdirection to distract our attention from the study.”

Flint didn’t like it. “No,” he said. “Smith would have made sure his line of retreat was clear before he ever appeared for the picture. He’d have called it off. And I don’t like that whispering. According to your first story you and Merlini went up those stairs so fast—”

“There was time enough for that. And besides, where was Smith the next time we see him?”

“According to you he was in the study. But unless you can explain how he got out again—”

“I can. Smith waits there until things have quieted down enough so that he can ease out. Merlini and I are outside waiting for the same thing so we can come back in. But Dudley Wolff, obstinate as usual, refuses to turn out his light and go to bed. Merlini and I decide to take a chance before Smith does. We come in and pick the lock. Phillips starts prowling around, and Merlini gets caught on the front stairs. I back into the study, right into Smith’s arms. He flattens me, tosses me out the window, and then, as soon as Phillips clears out, makes tracks. He left by the study door before Wolff was shot and just before Merlini came back up the stairs.

“Mrs. Wolff is lying when she says there was a third person in the study. At that point she was trying to talk her way out of a jam, and the ghost who seemed to be so expert at walking through brick walls was the logical candidate to take the rap.”

“The murder gun didn’t leave before Wolff was shot.”

“No. I’m coming to that. The next event on the program is Mrs. Wolff’s trip to the study. She lied about that too. She didn’t go there by accident. She thought Smith was there. She went to see him, possibly to help him get clear. But she was late. He’s just gone. And, a moment later, Dudley walks in and finds her there. He had missed his study key. He realized the that perhaps the ghost wasn’t as ghostly as he’d thought, that someone could have made use of the study after all. When he finds her there he knows who stole the key. And I think he tumbled to the fact that the shooting she’d done earlier was an act. He accused her. He probably threatened to cut her out of his will. That was a little habit he had. She saw all her plans going up in smoke, and she saw just one and only one way in which she could get out from under.

“She had the vest-pocket gun which she had taken from the gun room as protection against Smith whom she couldn’t trust. She took the smallest she could find because it was the sort of thing a woman could carry on her person unnoticeably. She shot him with it. That single direct action solved everything. It silenced him; it prevented any change in the will; it allowed her to collect the inheritance at once; and she was free of him.”

Flint objected, “You’re doing a hell of a lot of guessing as to what Wolff thought and what she thought. And you still haven’t got the gun—”

“Maybe so,” I admitted, “but it holds water. And whether or not that’s exactly what happened, she did shoot him. She’s the only person who could possibly have done it, the only other person in the room with him, the only person in the whole cast of suspects who could have smuggled that gun out of the room in spite of a down-to-the-skin search by experts! Merlini, tell him about Jeanne Veiller. Tell him why Mrs. Wolff, the ex-medium, used the smallest gun in the collection.”

Merlini shook his head. “I was afraid you were building up to this. Tell him yourself. I don’t think he’s going to like it much.”

He was right. Flint didn’t like it at all. When I told him that Jeanne Veiller was a regurgitating medium who concealed her cheesecloth ectoplasm by swallowing it, when I reminded him of the circus sword swallowers who also gulp down gold watches, lemons, and even live white mice, when I insisted that Mrs. Wolff had hidden the gun in the same way, he hit the ceiling.

“First it was an invisible spook who walks through solid walls! Now; he wasn’t in the room at the time of the shooting at all — and Mrs. Wolff swallows a gun! First it’s a human hedgehog and now it’s an ostrich! I won’t—”

“Okay, then you tell me how the gun got from the study to the car. Mrs. Wolff planted it in the glove compartment when she put the dry ice in the heater. She fixed it so he’d die in a traffic smash and take the rap for the murder. The door to the garage is within a few yards of the trellis outside her window. Who else had as good an opportunity? You give me an explanation that fits half as many facts.”

Flint thought about it a moment. Then he turned suddenly toward the sergeant. “Get Mrs. Wolff in here. We’ll see—”

Then the thing that had begun to worry me happened. Merlini, who had been sitting there, far too quietly, letting Flint make all the objections, suddenly came to life.

“Just a minute, Lieutenant,” he broke in. “Ross, are you quite finished? Is that the works?”

I nodded, scowling. “That’s it. There may be a rough edge here and there, but—”

“Rough edges and some holes. Do you mind if I put a few questions?”

“Yes,” I growled, “Knowing you, I do. But go ahead.”

He leaned lazily back in his chair. “There are four questions. Number one: Why oh why, if your masterpiece of synthesis, guesswork, and uncanny deductive reasoning is correct, did Smith tie that andiron to your feet and throw you overboard? You slid past that point in one awful hurry. Why wouldn’t he be content with just knocking you out? Why must he toss off a completely unnecessary murder for no good reason? Or can you give a reason?”

I couldn’t. I should have known he would have spotted that. The point had occurred to me, but so many other things had dovetailed so neatly that I’d let it pass. Besides, I hadn’t had time to give it much thought and Merlini gave me none now.

“Two,” he said. “The mystery of the strangely missing shot. You’ve not mentioned that trap gun at all. I suppose, according to your theory, Smith took it with him when he left the study. But at some time after its theft that gun was fired. It was not fitted with a silencer and yet no one has ever mentioned hearing an unexplained shot. I want to know why not. Answer that one and you really have solved the case.”

He paused briefly and then went on. “Three: If Smith vanished from the study as you say, if he ducked out the door just before I came back up the stairs, where did he go from there? And four: What about—”

“Wait, dammit! You might give me a chance to answer. Smith went across the hall into Mrs. Wolff’s bedroom, out the window, and down the trellis. There was no place else he could go. He certainly didn’t barge into Wolff’s room. He didn’t go into the guest room where Mrs. Wolff was. If he had, she wouldn’t have had to go across to the study later. Phillips was belowstairs at the other end of the hall, so he couldn’t have—”

Merlini nodded. “I’ll admit that. In fact, I insist upon it. He didn’t go past the head of the main stairs toward Kay’s room, Dunning’s room, or the back stairs, because I came up again as soon as Phillips retreated. I’ll admit that Mrs. Wolff’s bedroom appears to be the only place he could have gone. But suppose he did. When he opened the window and aimed his flashlight at the electric eye what happened?”

Flint answered that. “Nothing! He’d put his light on the blink when he cracked Harte over the head!” He turned to me. You’ve got him out of the study and left him high and dry in the bedroom. Two hours later he makes a break from the garage three stories below. Go on, Harte. We’re listening.”

“He had another flashlight on him when Lovejoy found his body.”

“A flashlight,” Merlini objected, “which you have identified as the one Kay kept in her car. But would Smith have it up there in the bedroom at that time? Would he have taken it earlier when there was nothing wrong with his own? He couldn’t have foreseen that he was going to tangle with you. He couldn’t—”

“Okay. There’s a lamp in the room. He took that over to the window—”

Merlini shook his head obstinately. “You’re clutching at straws. That lamp’s on the opposite side of the room and there’s no base plug or other outlet near enough to the window. There were no spare flashlights at hand in that bedroom either. I know because I searched it earlier when you and Leonard searched the rest of the house. I’m very much afraid that you’ve pushed Mr. Smith right out on the end of a long and shaky limb. You’ve said that he vanished from the bedroom first by not going into it but by going into the study instead. Then you explain him out of the study right back into the bedroom.

“You’ve left him standing by the window fiddling with a broken flashlight and listening, a moment later, to hell breaking loose in the hall outside. He hears the sound of shots and my pounding on the study door. The hallway fills up with people. A police car arrives and parks in the drive outside, smack at the foot of the trellis. Episode thirteen of The Perils of Mr. Smith will be shown next week at this theater.”

“And yet,” Flint added, “when we carried Mrs. Wolff in and put her to bed he wasn’t there. He didn’t go through the bathroom into Wolff’s room because that’s where we put you to bed. Maybe he went down the drain?”

“Or passed,” Merlini suggested, “as dry ice does, directly from a solid to gaseous state leaving no residue. The invisible man rides again. And that reminds me of the strange affair of the unsteady flower vases. Smith could have caused all the other poltergeist phenomena, but what about the vase that Kay and Phillips saw fall when no one else was there? And what about the one that tipped over in the living-room just now when everyone was there — everyone but the dead man whose fingerprint was on it? That’s question number four. Do you have that answer, Ross, or does the program’s sponsor have to send another encyclopedia to Mr. Z. B. Smith, Brimstone Manor, Purgatory Avenue, Hell?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t have the answer. But you’re acting as though you did. All right, if your theory ties up those loose ends, let’s hear it.”

“My theory?” he asked innocently. “Do I have to have one? Can’t a critic give his opinion of an omelet without being asked to lay an egg?”

Flint stepped up to the plate swinging. “I know damn well you’ve got a theory. I don’t think I’m going to like it either, but I want to hear it just the same. And right now!”

Merlini frowned, glanced at his wrist watch, frowned again, and then admitted grudgingly, “Well, I do have one or two ideas, but it’s a bit soon to—”

“No,” Flint said flatly. “Nothing doing. You may be able to pull that one on your friend Inspector Gavigan, but it doesn’t go with me. You’ve read too many detective stories where the amateur mastermind holds out his solution until last. Not this time you don’t. I’m giving you mine last, and you can count on that. Now talk!”

Merlini said, “Oh, you’ve got it solved too, have you?”

“Yes. Strangely enough I have. This is the pay-off. It’s all over but the shouting.”

Merlini glanced again at his watch. “Shouting?” he asked, and then added, ominously, “Or shooting?”

The lieutenant stepped toward him belligerently. “What do you mean by that? What are you waiting for?”

Merlini got to his feet. His facetious manner of a moment ago was suddenly gone. “Murder,” he said quietly. “There’s one more yet to come. It’s billed to go on almost any minute now. Upstairs in the study. I think we should attend.”

The solemn, completely serious way in which he spoke threw Flint off balance. He stared for a moment and then shook his head as if trying to wake from a bad dream.

“The hell it is. What are you trying to pull off now? How do you know that? Why—”

Merlini’s answer was short and devastating. “I arranged it.”

Merlini should have disappeared in a puff of smoke. The look Flint gave him was deadly enough.

The lieutenant jerked his thumb toward the livingroom. “The whole crowd’s in there,” he said, “And they’re going to stay there. That doesn’t get you a murder upstairs in the study.”

Merlini nodded. “I know, but you can’t keep them there forever. Sooner or later—”

“You think someone’s crazy enough to try another murder with the house full of cops?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. All murderers are more or less insane. This one is desperate. Besides, just to make sure that it comes off, I want you to leave the house and remove your men.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yes. It will be a quite harmless murder and the victim won’t mind a bit. He’s quite used to it by now. You see, the victim will be the same man the murderer has already tried to get three times. Mr. Smith — Zareh Bey, the man who defies death, the man who—”

Flint glared at the magician. “Are you trying to tell me that the man we saw at the morgue is someone else, that Smith is still alive, still here in this house?”

No. Smith is Zareh Bey. He is the man in the morgue. He’s dead. But the people in the next room don’t know that. And one of them has an appointment upstairs in the study with Smith.”

“How do you know that?”

“I made the appointment. I thought that the murderer, hearing nothing of any traffic accident, would suppose that the dry-ice scheme had failed and might not be too surprised to hear from Smith. So I brought him back from the dead again, a bit of necromancy that wasn’t difficult to accomplish when you consider that it’s none too easy to identify voices over a telephone.”

Flint glared at Merlini angrily. “You did what?”

“I phoned someone, pretended to be Smith, and said that I’d come back here as soon as the police had gone.”

“Who,” Flint demanded savagely, “did you phone?”

If Flint’s manner worried Merlini, he didn’t show it. “I phoned a person against whom we haven’t a scrap of decent evidence, the person who may give us what we need by making the mistake of walking through that study door, very probably prepared to make a last desperate attempt to eliminate Smith once and for all. If you pretend to send away your men and if we secretly station ourselves in the study—”

Flint was incredulous. “Do you think I’ll play along on a stunt like that unless I know who you phoned?”

“I hope so,” Merlini said seriously. “It’s our only chance of getting evidence that will convict.”

“And who told you,” Flint said coldly, “that you could be the judge of that? When were you put in charge of this case?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You’re quite right. But I can’t tell you who I phoned. I know exactly what would happen if I did. You wouldn’t like my answer. You’d give me an argument and you’d want proof of a kind I can’t give you. While we argued we’d miss our chance. Even if I managed to convince you that I was right, I’m afraid that you would think my trap is too theatrical. You’re not used to doing things that way. It’s not recommended by the manual of procedure. You’d want to use the orthodox tactics — make an arrest and hope that a taste of jail and some third degree would get results. That may work sometimes, but when a murderer is as clever and as stubborn as events have indicated this one is, you wouldn’t get to first base.”

For a long moment Flint stood silent, regarding Merlini with cold appraisal. Finally he said, “I could take you into the station and sweat it out of you.”

“And we’d lose our chance that way too,” Merlini answered. “You’ll get what you want a lot quicker my way. You can’t lose. If my plan works, you get the murderer and the evidence you need. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell you who I phoned and you can take it from there any way you like.”

Flint hesitated again. Then, suddenly, he made up his mind. “Okay,” he said. “Sergeant, put a pair of cuffs on him.”

Merlini blinked. “What do you mean, ‘Okay, put a pair of cuffs—’”

“I’m playing it your way because there’s something I want to know. But it’ll look damned funny if we pull out of here without a good reason. Since you’re so stubborn, you can be it.” He turned to Lovejoy. “Handcuff him, take him out through the living-room so those others get a look. I’ll tell ’em the case is solved and we’ve made an arrest.”

“But the murderer,” I objected, “the one person you want to fool, will know that’s not so.”

“So what? Murderers all think cops are dumb as hell. That’s why we catch so many. This one’ll think I’ve made a mistake.”

Lovejoy clicked one steel circle of the handcuff around Merlini’s wrist, the other about his own, as Flint added, “Take him right through to the hall. Tell Tucker to get outside, put a man in each of the police cars, and tip off the rest of the boys to stay under cover. Have Ryan stand by the front door. When I come out and we start up the stairs he’s to slam the front door so it sounds as if we’ve gone out. Right after, the cars drive off, the boys park them down the drive out of sight, and come back on the q.t. Got that?”

“Yes sir.”

Flint crossed the room to the living-room door. He looked back at me. “You stick with them and don’t stop to look in any shop windows. Ready?”

We all nodded. Flint opened the door. We heard the conversation in the room outside the away. Lovejoy and Merlini went in and I followed closely. We turned left and moved quickly toward the door to the hall. We had covered half the distance before any of the group around the fireplace spoke.

Then Kay’s voice came. “Ross, wait!” I looked back and saw Flint step in front of her as she started toward me. I looked back and saw Flint step in front of her as she started toward me.

“Just a minute, Miss Wolff,” he said. “You can talk to him later. I’ve got something to say.”

She wasn’t to be stopped that easily. She started to move around him.

I called back, “Kay, do as he says. He’s making the bonehead play of the year. But they haven’t built the jail yet that will hold Merlini. Wait here and sit tight. We’ll be back.”

I hurried after Lovejoy and Merlini, leaving Flint to fight the rest of the rear-guard action. I heard him begin to talk as I closed the door.

Then we hit the first snag. Tucker and Ryan, worried looks on their faces, hurried toward us from the rear of the hallway.

Tucker asked, “Where’s the lieutenant? I’ve got to see him.”

“Later,” Lovejoy replied. “This is rush,” He gave them their orders rapidly.

As he finished Merlini said, “Leonard’s not with the others in the living-room. Is that what’s bothering you, Tucker?”

The fingerprint man nodded. “Yes. The lieutenant told me to round everybody up. We can’t find him.”

Merlini frowned. “That’s awkward, but it’ll have to wait. Flint will be out here in a moment. We’ll tell him. Get going.”

The sergeant seconded the motion and they left, Tucker going out and Ryan taking up his position at the front door.

As we hurried up the stairs Lovejoy said, “I don’t like this. If you ask me, Leonard’s the guy we’re after. A chauffeur’s just the kind of guy who’d figure out a stunt like that dry ice in the car — Hey!”

His exclamation arose from the fact that he had just noticed that Merlini was ascending the stairs several feet ahead of him. Lovejoy lifted his wrist and stared at the open cuff that dangled from it.

Down below, Flint stepped through the living-room door, closed it behind him, and ran for the stairs. As he hurried up he asked, “Lovejoy, where the hell is Leonard? He’s not in there with the others.” Then, at the stairs’ top, he turned and signaled Ryan. The latter went out, slamming the front door behind him.

The sergeant said, “I don’t know. Tucker couldn’t find—”

Merlini, who had reached the study door and pushed it open, said, “Here he is, Lieutenant!”

The window across the room was partly open. The chauffeur stood before it, facing us. A heavy glass inkwell which he had snatched up from the desk was in his hand.

Flint’s gun came out. “Drop it!” he commanded.

“Okay.” Leonard replaced it on the desk. “Take it easy. You should knock before you—”

Merlini cut in quickly, “Sergeant, close that door. All of you keep your voices down.’’

Flint moved toward the chauffeur. “Merlini, is this the guy you phoned?”

Merlini sat down at Wolff’s desk. “No. It isn’t.”

Leonard said, “I guess this is where I talk.” He sat on the edge of the desk, lifted his foot, and slipped off his shoe. From it he took a small white card which he handed to Flint.

“I didn’t want you to find that when you frisked everybody this morning,” he said.

The lieutenant took it and read: Leonard Doran, Doran Detective Agency, 3414 Broadway. So that’s why I have trouble checking back on you. Who hired you?”

“Wolff. He wanted a bodyguard. He got threatening letters every now and then from crackpots. He didn’t act it, but he scared easy and I—”

“Why’d you hold out on me?”

“Well, business hasn’t been so hot lately. When Wolff gets shot I figure if I can crack the case on my own the publicity’ll do the agency some good. Maybe Mrs. Wolff will pay—”

“Business,” Flint cut in, “is going to be lousy. You won’t have a license starting tomorrow.”

Doran shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that, Lieutenant. You see, I know who the murderer is. And if you play ball with me—”

“Play ball hell! What do you know? Spill it fast!”

“Okay, Lieutenant, okay. Take it easy. It’s the secretary, Dunning. He’s the guy who was trying to blackmail Wolff. He’s the guy who loaded that car heater with dry ice. Stopping in at my room to bum a cigarette was just a gag to make sure I was out of the way. Then he goes in the garage and plants the ice in the car. But his pal Smith doesn’t go in for such fancy methods. He shows, knocks Dunning out, and—”

Flint’s voice was ominous. “How do you know anything about a traffic smash — or about dry ice?”

As Doran answered, I saw Merlini quietly remove the receiver from the desk phone and press his forefinger against one of the buttons on its base.

“I got an earful,” Doran said, “downstairs at the kitchen door just now. When I heard what I did, I figured Dunning for the job. Then I came up here to have a look around and dope out how he shot—”

Merlini cut in suddenly. “Quiet a moment, please.”

His voice as he spoke into the phone was low, rapid, and almost completely muffled by the hand he held cupped around the mouthpiece. The only words I could distinguish were “in the study” and “tell the police who killed—”

He hung up just as Flint jumped toward him. “Now,” he said, “keep quiet and watch that door!”

Flint’s voice was a low mutter of thunder. “Damn you! You never made a call before! That’s the one—”

Merlini nodded. “I had no chance earlier. And you wouldn’t have let me—”

“Who did you phone?”

“If you don’t let everyone in the house know we’re here, you’ll find out in about two minutes.”

Flint hesitated. He looked at the door and then at Merlini again. He shook his head obstinately. “You didn’t call anyone. But you’d like me to think you did. This is more of your damned misdirection. We’re going down to the station right now. Lovejoy—”

Quickly, Merlini said, “All right, Lieutenant. I’ll tell you who I called. But give me a chance to prove it. If you’ll stay away from that door for a few minutes we’ll catch her red-handed. Otherwise—”

“Her? Are you trying to give me the Mrs. Wolff yarn too?”

Merlini’s answer was straight out of a nightmare. “No,” he said slowly, “I’m not.”

I stared at him and felt a sick spasm of fear tighten in my stomach.

Flint’s voice seemed to come from far away. “You mean—”

“Yes. I phoned Kathryn Wolff.”

I have never been hit on the chin by Joe Louis, but I know now exactly how it feels.

Then, as though that first shattering blow were not enough, Merlini followed through with a barrage of body punches that had all the swift impact of machinegun bullets.

“Smith vanished from this room just as Ross said. He left by the door while I was still downstairs. I know where he went then, too. I’ll come to that in a moment. But first let me answer one of the questions I asked Ross. Why did he shove Ross out the window? The answer is that, since he had no reason he did nothing of the sort. The moment he knocked Ross out, he went away fast. And then, also before I returned, Kay entered the study from her room. She found Ross lying on the floor but assumed, in the dark, that it was Smith’s body. Why? Because she expected to find Smith there, and, since she set the trap gun that nearly got Smith, she expected to find him dead. That was why she came to the study. She had to get rid of the body. And that’s why Ross was shoved out the window!

“The other joker is that when she shot her father a moment later, she did it because he had threatened to cut her out of his will if she continued to be obstinate about seeing Ross. She wanted to have her cake and eat it too, not knowing that she’d just pushed it out into the Sound!”

I finally found my voice. “Merlini!” I exploded. “That’s completely impossible and you know it! What the hell are you trying to—”

He turned in his chair. “No, Ross, it’s not impossible and you know it. When her escape from the room by the door was cut off she got out the same way Flint said that you did. She’s an expert swimmer. She dived out the window. You saw her! But you’re in love with her and, murderess or not, you’re covering her!”

Then, as I stared at him in a blank paralysis of astonishment, Flint turned to face me. And behind his back Merlini’s right eye opened and closed in a broad wink.

The successive shocks had almost completely demoralized my nervous system, but somehow it managed shakily to absorb this new one. Merlini had not phoned Kathryn. He was improvising in a desperate attempt to keep Flint interested long enough for the real murderer to come in answer to the phone call.

I picked up my cue. I looked at Flint and said what I would have said if Merlini’s charge had been true, the only thing I could say in any case.

“He’s lying!”

Merlini shook his head. “It won’t do, Ross. Not when she walks in through that door.”

The uncertain look that was on Flint’s face said that these unexpected accusations had rocked him too. Merlini gave him no chance to recover.

“Then, because Kathryn had twice before tried to kill Smith, because Smith knew it, and because, if he talked, you’d know she was capable of murder, she had to get rid of him. And so she put the dry ice in the car. What’s more, I can tell you how she made that flower vase tip over in the living-room. Ice is the answer there too. She moved the vase so that it stood just on the table’s edge, its base overlapping. She tilted it back slightly and inserted a small piece of ice beneath its outer edge. As it melted the vase tipped slowly forward. Then, finally overbalanced, it dropped to the floor. Dry ice would leave no clue at all. Ordinary ice would leave only a small puddle that would pass unnoticed in the bigger splash of water that spilled from the vase when it broke.”

As Merlini spoke, Flint’s uncertainty vanished. He smiled grimly. “And the fingerprint. What about that?”

“Sleight of hand,” Merlini said. “If you’ll try putting the pieces of that vase back together again you’ll find that the one bearing the fingerprint won’t fit. It’s an extra piece cracked from a similar vase in the butler’s pantry. Kathryn had previously arranged that Smith should handle it. Later, when she placed the ice beneath the vase in the living-room, she dropped the fingerprinted fragment in among the flowers. It was a simple but effective piece of hocus-pocus that—”

“No,” Flint contradicted suddenly, “it’s not nearly as effective as you think.”

The gun in his hand lifted and pointed at Merlini.

His voice was cold and hard and confident. “Lovejoy, handcuff him again. And this time get those lockpicks he carries. He’s just told me all I wanted to know!”

Merlini’s eyebrows lifted. This turn of events was apparently not one he had planned. I’ve told you—

“Yeah. Yon certainly have. Thanks for explaining the flower-vase trick. That bothered me. But Miss Wolff didn’t put Smith’s fingerprint on that extra piece. You did! You saw Phillips take that vase into the living-room just before we left to investigate the traffic accident. And then you went into the kitchen for a moment. You’re the one who cracked a piece from another vase, and you added Smith’s print when we saw his body later at the morgue. You put the piece in with the flowers and put the ice under the vase just after we got back.

“I let you pull this bluff of trapping the murderer because I wasn’t sure just what kind of sleight of hand you were leading up to this time. I know now. You’re trying to frame Miss Wolff in a desperate attempt to save your own skin. You’re the guy who knows so much about burial-alive and dry-ice murder methods. You think that if you mix enough truth with your misdirection I’ll believe it. That burial-alive blackmail scheme is just the sort of thing a magician would think up, and a magician is just the sort of person who’d know someone like Zareh Bey. You shot Wolff!”

“I did? Why?”

“You were trying to get backing for your show. That’s why you tried to blackmail Wolff. But things went wrong when your Algerian stooge wouldn’t stay dead. You didn’t come out here last night to investigate a ghost; you came to get rid of him. But Smith tried to get you first. When Harte came into the study in the dark, Smith thought it was you. That’s why he tossed Harte out the window!

“Then, after he left, Kay didn’t come in. You did. You took cover behind the desk when Mrs. Wolff and then Wolff arrived. Wolff had begun to suspect you. You heard him begin to tell his wife that. You shot him. She fainted. Then you went out into the hall, locked the door behind you with your lockpicks, and, when everyone else arrived, pretended you were trying to get in to investigate the shots.”

“You almost convince me, Lieutenant. And the murder gun? How did I get that out? I was still at the door when you arrived, and you had the sergeant search me immediately after.”

“Lovejoy hasn’t had much experience frisking magicians. You palmed it. That’s why you picked the smallest you could find.”

“And I put the dry ice in the car heater too?”

“Sure. You had to get rid of Smith. He knew too much.”

“I see. And then, after committing the perfect crime, I call your attention to the cigarette and prove that what I’d tried so hard to make look like accident was murder. That seems a bit odd.”

Flint shook his head. “I thought you’d give me that. You’re a magician. You couldn’t resist the temptation to let everyone know that the accident was a perfect, undetectable crime — a clever trick. That was why we had to listen to that damned smug lecture of yours in which you said the criminal was a genius. You were tossing bouquets at yourself. You thought it was more misdirection. You figured that if you blew the gaff on the accident, I’d never suspect you could be the murderer. But you laid it on too thick. That’s partly why you gave me the burial-alive story too, that and the fact that you had to dish up something to explain the missing body and all the evidence that indicated that Smith was still alive.

“And what’s more, if you really had phoned Miss Wolff just now, if she and not yourself were the murderer, she’d have been here by now. What made you think that she’d—

Flint stopped as suddenly as if someone had clapped a hand over his mouth. His head jerked around. The knob on the study door was turning.

Merlini’s tense whisper said, “The phone call did work after all! Make sure you get the person who comes—”

The door pushed open. Flint watched but the gun in his hand still covered Merlini. Then his jaw dropped.

Lovejoy was the one who acted. He lunged forward, grabbed the wrist of the person who stood in the doorway, and twisted it savagely.

The blue-steel automatic in Kay’s hand fell to the floor.

I turned to Merlini. “You and your sleight of hand,” I roared. “Now look what you’ve done!” I started toward Kay. “Why did you come to this room just now? Why—”

Flint grabbed my arm. He roared even louder. “You pipe down! I’ll do the questioning. Well, Miss Wolff?”

She nodded at the window which Leonard had left partly open and which no one had thought to close. “My room is the next one over. I heard voices in here, Merlini’s and yours. I thought I heard Merlini accusing me—” She looked at him with round eyes, still not quite believing it.

“I apologize, Kay,” Merlini said quickly. “I’m sorry. Don’t believe everything you hear. Is that gun of yours loaded?”

She shook her head. “No. I took it from the gun room as I came upstairs. When the police arrest the wrong person and then go away leaving us with a murderer — well, I felt safer—”

Lovejoy, who had picked the gun up and examined it, said, “She’s right. It’s empty.”

“And that,” Merlini said, “lets her out, Lieutenant. The murderer wouldn’t arrive bent on killing Smith with an unloaded gun.”

“She wouldn’t have come here to meet Smith anyway,” I put in. “She knew he was dead. I told her.”

Flint turned to Merlini. “You’re not still trying to make me believe that you called anyone on that phone?”

“I am. I did call someone. But not Miss Wolff. The case against her won’t stand a good close look. Ross did not see her go out the window. I was only talking fast, trying to keep you quiet until the person I did phone should arrive. But now, with this door wide open and our voices broadcasting the fact that we’re here, the trap is a washout. And I am, apparently, going to have to do some even faster talking to get out from under the case you’ve built up against me.”

He stopped. His head jerked around toward the door.

The burglar alarm was ringing once again and from outside the house, as it had once before that morning, came the quick starting roar of a car.

“Lieutenant,” Merlini said, “there goes your murderer.”

For a moment Flint hung fire. Then, as the pistol shots cracked out, he roared, “Lovejoy! No one leaves this room. Watch them!” And he was gone.

Merlini looked at Lovejoy. “You’d better get out an alarm, Sergeant. And quickly. Flint is going to have trouble. The police cars are all parked down the drive. By the time he reaches one—”

The sergeant made a startled grab for the phone.

I looked at Merlini. “Your sleight of hand slipped a bit, didn’t it?”

“It wobbled some,” he admitted. “But the trap did work. The murderer heard our voices just now when Kay came in. Having had no news of Smith’s death, having seen the fingerprint on the flower vase indicate that he had returned, and having received my phone call, it looked as though Smith were here and that we had got him — alive, kicking, and ready to talk. It looked as if there was nothing to do but get out fast.”

Kay said, “Merlini, who are you talking about? If someone doesn’t tell me something soon, I’ll—”

Merlini looked at me. “Ross, you tell her.”

“Tell her what? Haggard, Galt, Dunning, Phillips, Scotty — if you can show me how a single one of them could possibly have been in this room when Wolff was shot—”

Sergeant Lovejoy’s voice, angry and baffled, roared at us across the phone. “Dammit, do you know who took it on the lam in that car or don’t you? I don’t know who to tell them to stop!”

“You should,” Merlini answered. “Ross told you some time ago. Mrs. Wolff.”

Lovejoy stared at him uncertainly. “If this is more of your sleight of hand—”

“No, Sergeant. Cross my heart and hope to die. That’s the last solution. There are no more.”

“It was the first one too,” I growled. “And you had to pretend it was wrong so you could step into the spotlight and finish things off with a lot of pretty fireworks. It seems to me that just for once you might let someone else—”

“But, Ross,” he objected. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I merely asked you some questions. Luckily you didn’t have the answers, lost confidence, and began to doubt—”

“Luckily?”

“Yes. If I had agreed with you, if we had convinced the lieutenant and he had made an arrest, then he could never have made it stick. He wouldn’t have had enough concrete evidence to put in his eye, or in the district attorney’s. And he would have discovered that even the nicely built castle of deductive reasoning he did have was built on sand.”

“But if she is the only possible person who could have been in this study when Wolff was shot—”

“That’s the trouble. From Flint’s point of view she isn’t. The whole train of reasoning that proves she must have shot Wolff is based directly on your testimony that no one had left by and no gun had been thrown from the window, and on my testimony that no one had left by the door. Accept those statements as fact and the only solution to the problem of the vanishing gun must be just what you said — that she swallowed it. But neither of us had the least bit of corroboration. When the attorney for the defense got through pointing out that I get my living by deception, that you had a motive as big as all outdoors, and that we were both guilty of burglarous entry the jury would begin having reasonable doubts by the dozen.

“The moment our statements are doubted the whole locked-room situation collapses. Mrs. Wolff is not the only possible suspect. There’s a case against you — you shot him and dropped out the window; there’s a case against Kay — she shot him and did the same; there’s a case against me, the best of the lot — I shot him and left by the door. I knew that in order to escape that predicament we’d have to turn up some evidence against Mrs. Wolff that a jury could really get its teeth into. And then, before there was a chance, you turned my hair gray by popping out with the correct answer way too soon.”

“And so you popped your trick questions,” I said unhappily. “Flint is right. Never trust a magician. That question about the flower vase had nothing to do with the case at all. You’re the colored man in that woodpile. You added that bit of embroidery in order to convince Mrs. Wolff that Smith was back again. And then you insisted I had no case until I had explained it. Was that fair?”

“It was necessary. I had to give you something to worry about until I could set and bait my trap. But it wasn’t so unfair. Flint gave you the answer before the pay-off, you know. And, for good measure, I gave you one of the other answers as well. When I threw Kay to the wolves I told you that you had made a mistake in assuming that Smith shoved you out the window. I told you that the murderer did it, thinking that she was getting rid of Smith’s body.

“But I couldn’t very well explain when the trap gun was fired or where Smith went to after leaving the study. I was trying to cook up a case against Kay, and both those answers point directly at Mrs. Wolff.”

“I give up,” I said. “When was the trap gun fired?”

“You give up too easily. You heard it fired. We all did.”

Kay objected. “But, Merlini, the only shots we heard were the ones Anne fired in her bedroom.”

Merlini nodded. “And how many did you hear?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t count them. There were a lot.”

I tried to remember. “We heard two shots, then three, and she opened her door and backed out into the hall still blazing away. She fired twice more. I’ll be damned!”

“Seven shots,” Merlini said. “Yet her gun held six and there were only six bullet holes in the walls of her bedroom. I’m afraid I didn’t realize that until a bit late myself, not until Lovejoy found the trap gun and we knew it had been fired. When I tried to figure out when that could have happened, I began counting shots and bullet holes. Then, a moment later the medical examiner phoned and reported a powder burn on Smith’s face. That tore it. It he was the one who had gone into the study and tripped the trap gun, Mrs. Wolff couldn’t have been shooting at him in the bedroom as she said. She was shooting at nothing and her barrage not only misdirected our attention from the study, as you said, but also covered the sound of the trap gun as well.”

“But,” Kay objected, “I don’t see why Smith went into the study at all. That was a dead end. Why didn’t he go through Anne’s room and out the window?”

“That’s what he intended to do,” I said. “But she sidetracked him into the study where the trap gun was. When he ducked after posing for the picture, she met him at her door, whispered that Leonard was outside and—”

“Wait, Ross,” Merlini said, shaking his head. “Flint didn’t like that whispering. Neither do I. There’s a much simpler method. All she had to do was lock her door. Smith does the only thing he can do — he jumps for the study. As soon as she hears the report of the trap gun she blazes away with her own gun, backs out of her room into the hall, and comes to a stop directly against the study door. She was making sure that the door had closed and locked behind Smith.

“Later, she did what I pretended to Flint that Kay had done. She went to the study to get rid of the body. But, since Dudley was still awake in his room next door, she didn’t dare show a light that might shine out on the water and be seen from his window. Nor was there any moonlight to show her, when she pulled the body up onto the window sill, that she was making a slight mistake in identity. And Ross, do you remember that when you got your head up above water you saw that the study light had been turned on? And remember who I told you had turned it on?”

I nodded glumly. “Yes. I do now. Dudley Wolff. He had the damned bad luck to walk in on a murderer just as she was getting rid of what she thought was her victim’s body. That’s why she shot him.”

“And then,” Merlini went on, “before she could get out and back to her own room, before she could even do what Flint accused me of — get outside the study door, lock it, and begin pounding on it as though she had just arrived — before she could make a move, I was there at the door doing some pounding of my own! Why that didn’t turn her hair white I don’t know. She had dropped straight from frying pan into a roaring red-hot blaze of fire. She stood there in a locked room, her husband’s body at her feet, and a gun in her hand.

“Anyone’s first instinctive reaction, even in as hopeless a situation as that, would be to rid themselves somehow of that gun. She couldn’t put it in Wolff’s hand and give out a suicide story. Even if he hadn’t been shot twice and in the wrong places, his fear of death made his suicide highly unlikely. Throwing it out the window was nearly as bad. That would be the first place the police, not finding it in the room would look. The vest-pocket gun which she had taken from the collection for the reason Ross gave, that it was small enough for a woman to carry unnoticed on her person, was still far too large to carry unnoticed out of any such situation as this. The voices in the hall outside told her that the police had already arrived. The search she would get would be thorough enough to uncover any gun no matter how small.

“But I doubt that Anne Wolff, in the moments during which I tried frantically to pick the lock on that door, even needed to think through and discard those possibilities. Another and much better one would have occurred to her almost at once. One of the standard methods of producing the spirit lights that had been her special mediumistic forte is the use of a vial of oil in which phosphorus has been dissolved. When the solution is uncapped and exposed to air in the dark it glows with a pale-yellow light. Mrs. Wolff concealed this evidence of fraud by using the subtle but common magician’s principle of deception known as the ‘unlikely means.’ She had practiced an ability to accomplish an action which the ordinary investigator would never suspect simply because it is so unlikely that it never occurs to him. She concealed her spirit-light vial in the same way Jeanne Veiller, Mrs. Duncan, and other mediums hid their ectoplasm. The gun was no larger. She removed the unfired cartridges and swallowed it.

“Then, because this created an apparently impossible situation, similar to those given us by the ghost who had already twice vanished inexplicably, the obvious line to follow was to pretend that he had done it again. The police might not swallow any such theory as that, but the gun’s absence and the prevalence of ghost stories they’d get from all sides would at least confuse the investigation and delay her arrest long enough for her to get an opportunity to cut and run for it. So she dropped the key she had taken from her husband’s ring behind the desk where she later said someone or something had been hiding. Then she lay down, kept her fingers crossed, and played possum.”

“And then,” I said, “I’ll bet she really did pass out. When you pulled me out of the water, she was face to face with the paralyzing fact that the man who cannot die was still living up to his reputation!”

Merlini nodded. “It must have been discouraging to say the least. She realized that the trap gun had missed, that she had disposed of the wrong body, that Smith was still alive and well-aware that she had tried a second time to kill him. And to top that off, her attempt to mislead the police by throwing suspicion on a dead man would boomerang disastrously the moment they found him still alive and heard his—”

“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Still alive, but, as you proved so thoroughly, invisible. Now disprove it.”

“Why? He was invisible. He left the study just as you said. He went across into the bedroom and discovered that his flashlight wouldn’t work. I pointed out that he could not leave by the window, the door to the hall, or the door to the bathroom. But is it my fault that you forgot that there is another door in that room?”

“Another door?”

“Yes. The closet door. It’s not exactly a way out of the room, but it is a place to hide — the only place. When Mrs. Wolff was carried in, searched, and put to bed, there was no particular reason for anyone to go poking around behind the dresses in that closet. The police were naturally concentrating on the study, the missing gun, and your very suspicious presence in the water below the window. It wasn’t until nearly three hours later, when you told us your story and Tucker found fingerprints to back you up, that we found out that the ghost had been in the study. It was a bit late then. In the meantime Doctor Haggard had given Mrs. Wolff the sleeping tablets which she promptly coughed up along with the gun as soon as he had gone out. Then — well, what else would happen once she was alone?”

“Smith,” Kay answered in an awed voice. “He came out. He may even have found her with the gun in her hands!”

“Go on. And then—”

“Then,” I said, “it’s stalemate. He’s got her cold on two charges of attempted murder and one successful one. But if she can escape conviction, he can blackmail her for the lion’s share of what she’ll get under Wolff’s will. Or he could if he wasn’t trapped there in her room. The moment he’s found, he’s going to have to talk fast and confess to attempted blackmail and assault in order to pin the murder rap on her before she tries to pin it on him.”

Merlini nodded. “The only possible chance of escaping that many-horned dilemma is for him to get out of that room and clear of the house. Mrs. Wolff, who has tried so hard all along to kill Smith, now has no choice but to help him escape. They wait until the upper hallway is clear for a moment, a long and nerve-racking wait because that doesn’t happen until just before dawn when Flint’s men have finished their examination of the study. Then Mrs. Wolff slips out and goes after a flashlight. It may be a bit awkward if she’s spotted, since Haggard’s sedative is supposed to have put her out of action, but it’s their only chance. Smith can’t try to leave by that route because if anyone gets the smallest glimpse of him the fat really would be in the fire.

“I can imagine that Smith, knowing all too well by now that he can’t trust her out of his sight, doesn’t like this procedure one little bit. But he has no choice and, not being able to see just how she can double-cross him without putting her own neck in a noose, he underestimates her once again. During that three-hour wait she has figured out a way. She knows that even if he escapes, it still leaves her holding the bag. She can expect him to bleed her of every cent of the inheritance she’ll get and she has no guarantee at all that even then he may not some day turn her in as revenge for the twice she’s tried to kill him. When she goes down the hall she puts plan number three for the elimination of the phoenixlike Mr. Smith into action. She makes for the kitchen, picks up the dry ice, and goes down through the basement to the garage.”

“Wait,” I broke in. “Her experience as a medium made the vanishing-gun trick possible, but what about the dry ice? Why would she think of a stunt like that?”

“Same reason, Ross. The cold breezes that sometimes waft themselves through a séance room are not the ghostly emanations from the Beyond the medium pretends, but result much more prosaically from a concealed blowing mechanism and dry ice, which is exactly the setup she used this time. She knew that in the small space of a closed car the ghostly breezes would be deadly ones. The printed warnings on a dry-ice container are enough to indicate that. She could have put the ice in her own car, given Smith the keys, and said later that she had left them in the car. But, since that’s just what Kay had done, it was simpler and more misleading to use her car instead. She planted the murder gun there too, partly as a means of getting it out of the house and partly so that suspicion would fall and this time remain on what, she hoped would at last be a dead Mr. Smith. That would close the case.

“Then she took Kay’s flash and returned to her room either by the way she had left, or now that she had a light, more probably by the more direct and less risky trellis route. She threw a scare into Smith by reporting that the estate was overrun with police and convinced him that, since it’s daylight, his best chance of running the gantlet is to make a quick break for it in the car. It was good advice as far as it went, and Smith’s one thought by then was to get as far away as fast as possible. When Dunning nearly caught him at it in the garage, that only hastened his flight.”

“Okay, Mastermind,” I growled, still annoyed at the way he had crossed me up, “that answers everything except the one about the escaped lunatic and the speed of the river under his rowboat.[5] But if you had it figured out as neatly as all that you could have talked Flint into agreeing—”

Merlini shook his head. “I’m not so sure, Ross. He might have asked me question number five, the one I didn’t ask you because I don’t have the answer. And if he didn’t ask it, she would have.”

“Question number five?”

“Yes. Mrs. Wolff tried to get Smith with the trap gun, she shot her husband, and she succeeded finally in getting Smith with the dry ice. Her motive each time was desperation. She was trying frantically to save her own neck. But what about that first time when she tried to kill Smith by leaving him in the grave? We haven’t got a motive for that.”

“What’s wrong with the one I gave you? She couldn’t trust him not to turn around later and blackmail her?”

“If she couldn’t trust him, why use him as an accomplice at all? She had more sense—”

“Who else could she use? Shallow-breathing burial-alive experts don’t grow on every bush.”

“All right. That brings up question number six. Why did she have to try to blackmail her husband in that very unusual manner? You talked very glibly and fast to the effect that it wasn’t much fun being married to Dudley. You said that if she tried to cut loose by any of the usual means he’d blow up in his customary manner and see to it that she didn’t get away with any cash. That’s weak. I don’t like it. She’s clever enough to have thought of some way that didn’t include murder. Yet she didn’t. Why not? We know all her motives except the most important one — the original one that set the whole train of fireworks off.”

Lieutenant Flint’s voice came suddenly from the doorway. “I hope we get it, but our chances aren’t good.”

“She got away?” asked Merlini.

“No. We got her. Tucker was bright enough to have Ryan stick with the cars when they parked them down the drive, just in case. When he heard the shots and I heard the getaway car coming he swung one of the police cars out across the drive. She came around a curve and smacked into it head on. Doctor Haggard says she won’t be answering any questions for some time, if then.”

Flint got the answer though. He brought it backstage a week later, just before the first performance of Merlini’s Hocus-Pocus Revue which was opening on schedule, courtesy of an angel named Kathryn Wolff.

“Here’s the motive you wanted,” he said, laying out on Merlini’s dressing-room table a large scrapbook, a newspaper clipping, and a telegram.

The latter read: Man answering Zareh Bey description operated religious cult racket here until three months ago under name Zorah the Mystic. Wanted on charges of using the mails to defraud. — Capt. J. J. O’Connor, Los Angeles Police Department.

“That’s what he’s been up to since he died on the Morro Castle,” Flint said. “When the going got rough he ducked out and came East. He was staying in a cheap hotel over on Tenth Avenue. When we searched his room we found this.”

The lieutenant picked up the newspaper clipping which I recognized as part of one of the picture layouts in the series of articles I had written about Wolff. It was a shot of Mr. and Mrs. Wolff at the annual banquet of the National Association of Chemical Trades and Industries. Dudley, who had just been elected president, was beaming. Mrs. Wolff, caught off guard by the photographer, was plainly bored stiff.

“And then,” Flint continued, “I located the booking agent who handled Zareh Bey back in ’33 and ’34.” Flint opened the big scrapbook, across the cover of which was lettered: Zareh Bey, The Man Who Cannot Die — Press Notices. “The dates on these clippings tell a good bit of the story. The agent gave me the rest. Zareh blew in to the country in ’29 just after Rahman and Hamid started the burial-alive ball rolling. They were all featured vaudeville headliners for a year or two, but then the supply of fakirs began to exceed the demand, the novelty wore off, vaudeville died on its feet, and by ’33 Zareh is playing two-bit carnivals. In ’34 he decided to have a go at the South American circuit, but he was working on a shoestring and somebody slapped an attachment on his show before he got any farther than Havana. He was head over heels in debt, and then his wife walked out on him. He took the Morro Castle back. You can see why he didn’t deny the newspaper reports of his—”

“Did you say wife?” Merlini put in.

Flint turned a few more pages of the scrapbook and then put his finger on a one-column half-tone cut. The caption beneath read: Medium Produces Strange Spirit Lights in Séance.

“She was the added attraction that entertained the customers while Zareh Bey took his underground nap. Recognize the lady?”

“Yes. She was still married to him at the time of the fire?”

Flint nodded. “You get the idea. And she never got a divorce before marrying Wolff because she didn’t know she needed one.”

“But,” I said, “she finds out when husband number one sees her picture in the papers and discovers who she’s married. He returns from the dead and threatens to tell Wolff that his wife is guilty of bigamy unless she can give him a few good reasons why not — preferably in unmarked bills of large denomination. She can’t pay off because she has no money of her own and Dudley is distinctly not the sort who’d give her any such amount and no questions asked. Zareh Bey won’t take that for an answer. She has to think up another one. So she suggests that they blackmail Wolff together. And, since he doesn’t scare easily except on one count, they play upon his fear of death and get him to believe he has killed a man by staging the phony death and burial of Mr. Smith.”

“A scheme,” Merlini added, “having possibilities that intrigue Zareh Bey. And a few that he doesn’t notice. Mrs. Wolff had a talent for schemes that worked two ways. This one would not only give her the lever she needed to handle Wolff, but would, at the same time, cancel out husband number one by putting him back in the grave she thought he had been in all along. If the man who could not die had only stayed dead he might still be alive.”

“And the real joker,” Flint said, “is that Zareh Bey didn’t actually have anything on her at all. It she believed he was dead when she married Wolff, she did it in good faith and it doesn’t count as bigamy. But she doesn’t know enough law. She tries to kill him off, and because he’s the world’s champion zombi, she has to strike three times before he’s out and shoot husband number two as well. If I ever get another case like it, I’m going to crawl into a hole, pull it in after me, and do some shallow breathing myself.”

Burt Fawkes hurried in. “Overture’s on,” he announced. “Let’s go.”

Merlini stood up, made a gesture with his empty hand and produced a theater ticket from nothing. “Fifth row, center aisle,” he said, handing it to Flint. “We bury ’em alive, burn ’em alive, and saw ’em in two. Just the sort of thing every policeman should know. Go out front and enjoy yourself. I have to finish dressing. Burt, hand me those rabbits.”

A few minutes later, as I waited in the wings with Kay for her first cue, I gave her a kiss for good luck.

“Now go out there and disappear into thin air. But don’t you dare fail to come back.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “I’m going to haunt you for a long time to come. Scared?”

“Well maybe just a little. But I like it.”