PLEASE STAND BY
UNCLE ARLY
HELP STAMP OUT CHESNEY
McNAMARA'S FISH
KEARNY'S LAST CASE
BREAKAWAY HOUSE
THE GHOST PATROL
THE STRAWHOUSE PAVILION
FILL IN THE BLANK
THE ART DEPARTMENT SECRETARY put her Christmas tree down and kissed Max Kearny. "There's somebody to see you," she said, getting her coat the rest of the way on and picking up the tree again.
Max shifted on his stool. "On the last working day before Christmas?"
"Pile those packages in my arms," the secretary said. "He says it's an emergency."
Moving away from his drawing board Max arranged the gift packages in the girl's arms. "Who is it? A rep?"
"Somebody named Dan Padgett."
"Oh, sure. He's a friend of mine from another agency. Tell him to come on back."
"Will do. You'll have a nice Christmas, won't you, Max?"
"I think the Salvation Army has something nice planned."
"No, seriously, Max. Don't sit around some cold bar. Well, Merry Christmas."
"Same to you." Max looked at the rough layout on his board for a moment and then Dan Padgett came in. "Hi, Dan. What is it?"
Dan Padgett rubbed his palms together. "You still have your hobby?"
Max shook out a cigarette from his pack. "The ghost detective stuff? Sure."
"But you don't specialize in ghosts only?" Dan went around the room once, then closed the door.
"No. I'm interested in most of the occult field. The last case I worked on involved a free-lance resurrectionist. Why?"
"You remember Anne Clemens, the blonde?"
"Yeah. You used to go out with her when we worked at Bryan-Josephs and Associates. Skinny girl."
"Slender. Fashion model type." Dan sat in the room's chair and unbuttoned his coat. "I want to marry her."
"Right now?"
"I asked her two weeks ago but she hasn't given me an answer yet. One reason is Kenneth Westerland."
"The animator?"
"Yes. The guy who created Major Bowser. He's seeing Anne, too."
"Well," said Max, dragging his stool back from the drawing board. "I don't do lovelorn work, Dan. Now if Westerland were a vampire or a warlock I might be able to help."
"He's not the main problem. It's if Anne says yes."
"What is?"
"I can't marry her."
"Change of heart?"
"No." Dan tilted to his feet. "No." He rubbed his hands together. "No, I love her. The thing is there's something wrong with me. I hate to bother you so close to Christmas, but that's part of it."
Max lit a fresh cigarette from the old one. "I still don't have a clear idea of the problem, Dan."
"I change into an elephant on all national holidays."
Max leaned forward and squinted one eye at Dan. "An elephant?"
"Middle-sized gray elephant."
"On national holidays?"
"More or less. It started on Halloween. It didn't happen again till Thanksgiving. Fortunately I can talk during it and I was able to explain to my folks that I wouldn't get home for our traditional Thanksgiving get-together."
"How do you dial the phone?"
"I waited till they called me. You can pick up a phone with your trunk. I found that out."
"Usually people change into cats or wolves."
"I wouldn't mind that," Dan said, sitting. "A wolf, that's acceptable. It has a certain appeal. I'd even settle for a giant cockroach, for the symbolic value. But a middle-sized gray elephant. I can't expect Anne to marry me when I do things like that."
"You don't think," said Max, crossing to the window and looking down at the late afternoon crowds, "that you're simply having hallucinations?"
"If I am they are pretty authentic. Thanksgiving Day I ate a bale of hay." Dan tapped his fingers on his knees. "See, the first time I changed I got hungry after a while. But I couldn't work the damned can opener with my trunk. So I figured I'd get a bale of hay and keep it handy if I ever changed again."
"You seemed to stay an elephant for how long?"
"Twenty-four hours. The first time—both times I've been in my apartment, which has a nice solid floor—I got worried. I trumpeted and stomped around. Then the guy upstairs, the queer ceramacist, started pounding on the floor. I figured I'd better keep quiet so nobody would call the cops and take me off to a zoo or animal shelter. Well, I waited around and tried to figure things out and then right on the nose at midnight I was myself again."
Max ground his cigarette into the small metal pie plate on his workstand. "You're not putting me on, are you?"
"No, Max." Dan looked up hopefully. "Is this in your line? I don't know anyone else to ask. I tried to forget it. Now, though, Christmas is nearly here. Both other times I changed was on a holiday. I'm worried."
"Lycanthropy," said Max. "That can't be it. Have you been near any elephants lately?"
"I was at the zoo a couple years ago. None of them bit me or even looked at me funny."
"This is something else. Look, Dan, I've got a date with a girl down in Palo Alto on Christmas Day. But Christmas Eve I can be free. Do you change right on the dot?"
"If it happens I should switch over right at midnight on the twenty-fourth. I already told my folks I was going to spend these holidays with Anne. And I told her I'd be with them."
"Which leaves her free to see Westerland."
"That son of a bitch."
"Major Bowser's not a bad cartoon show."
"Successful anyway. That dog's voice is what makes the show. I hate Westerland and I've laughed at it." Dan rose. "Maybe nothing will happen."
"If anything does it may give me a lead."
"Hope so. Well, Merry Christmas, Max. See you tomorrow night."
Max nodded and Dan Padgett left. Leaning over his drawing board Max wrote Hex? on the margin of his layout.
He listened to the piped in music play Christmas carols for a few minutes and then started drawing again.
The bale of hay crackled as Max sat down on it. He lit a cigarette carefully and checked his watch again. "Half hour to go," he said.
Dan Padgett poured some scotch into a cup marked Tom & Jerry and closed the Venetian blinds. "I felt silly carrying that bale of hay up here. People expect to see you with a tree this time of year."
"You could have hung tinsel on it."
"That'd hurt my fillings when I eat the hay." Dan poured some more scotch and walked to the heater outlet. He kicked it once. "Getting cold in here. I'm afraid to complain to the landlady. She'd probably say—'Who else would let you keep an elephant in your rooms? A little chill you shouldn't mind.'"
"You know," said Max, "I've been reading up on lycanthropy. A friend of mine runs an occult bookshop."
"Non-fiction seems to be doing better and better."
"There doesn't seem to be any recorded case of were-elephants."
"Maybe the others didn't want any publicity."
"Maybe. It's more likely somebody has put a spell on you. In that case you could change into most anything."
Dan frowned. "I hadn't thought of that. What time is it?"
"Quarter to."
"A spell, huh? Would I have to meet the person who did it? Or is it done from a distance?"
"Usually there has to be some kind of contact."
"Say," said Dan, lowering his head and stroking his nose, "you'd better not sit on the bale of hay. Animals don't like people fooling with their food." He was standing with his feet wide apart, his legs stiff.
Max carefully got up and moved back across the room. "Something?"
"No," said Dan. He leaned far forward, reaching for the floor with his hands. "I just have an itch. My stomach."
Max watched as Dan scratched his stomach with his trunk. "Damn."
Raising his head, the middle-sized gray elephant squinted at Max. "Hell, I thought it wouldn't happen again."
"Can I come closer?"
Dan beckoned with his trunk. "I won't trample you."
Max reached out and touched the side of the elephant "You're a real elephant sure enough."
"I should have thought to get some cabbages, too. This stuff is pretty bland." He was tearing trunkfuls of hay from the bale and stuffing them into his mouth.
Max remembered the cigarette in his hand and lit it. He walked twice around the elephant and said, "Think back now, Dan. To the first time this happened. When was it?"
"I told you. Halloween."
"But that's not really a holiday. Was it the day after Halloween? Or the night itself?"
"Wait. It was before. It was the day after the party at Eando Carawan's. In the Beach."
"Where?"
"North Beach. There was a party. Anne knows Eando's wife. Her name is Eando, too."
"Why?"
"His name is Ernest and hers is Olivia. E-and-O. So they both called themselves Eando. They paint those pictures of bug-eyed children you can buy in all the stores down there. You should know them, being an artist yourself."
Max grunted. "Ernie Carawan. Sure, he used to be a freelance artist, specializing in dogs. We stopped using him because all his dogs started having bug-eyes."
"You ought to see Olivia."
"What happened at the party?"
"Well," said Dan, tearing off more hay, "I get the idea that there was some guy at this party. A little round fat guy. About your height. Around thirty-five. Somebody said he was a stage magician or something."
"Come on," said Max, "elephants are supposed to have good memories."
"I think I was sort of drunk at the time. I can't remember all he said. Something about doing me a favor. And a flash."
"A flash?"
"The flash came to him like that. I told him to—to do whatever he did." Dan stopped eating the hay. "That would be magic, though, Max. That's impossible."
"Shut up and eat your hay. Anything is possible."
"You're right. Who'd have thought I'd be spending Christmas as an elephant."
"That magician for one," said Max. "What's his name? He may know something."
"His name?"
"That's right."
"I don't know. He didn't tell me."
"Just came up and put a spell on you."
"You know how it is at parties."
Max found the phone on a black table near the bookshelves. "Where's the phone book?"
"Oh, yeah."
"What?"
"It's not here. The last time I was an elephant I ate it."
"I'll get Carawan's number from information and see if he knows who this wizard is."
Carawan didn't. But someone at his Christmas Eve party did. The magician ran a sandal shop in North Beach. His name was Claude Waller. As far as anyone knew he was visiting his ex-wife in Los Angeles for Christmas and wouldn't be back until Monday or Tuesday.
Max reached for the price tag on a pair of orange leather slippers. The beaded screen at the back of the shop clattered.
"You a fagot or something, buddy?" asked the heavy-set man who came into the room.
"No, sir. Sorry."
"Then you don't want that pair of slippers. That's my fagot special. Also comes in light green. Who are you?"
"Max Kearny. Are you Claude Waller?"
Waller was wearing a loose brown suit. He unbuttoned the coat and sat down on a stool in front of the counter. "That's who I am. The little old shoemaker."
Max nodded.
"That's a switch on the wine commercial with the little old winemaker."
"I know."
"My humor always bombs, It's like my life. A big bomb. What do you want?"
"I hear you're a magician."
"No."
"You aren't?"
"Not anymore. My ex-wife, that flat-chested bitch, and I have reunited. I don't know what happened. I'm a tough guy. I don't take any crap."
"I'd say so."
"Then why'd I send her two hundred bucks to come up here?"
"Is there time to stop the check?"
"I sent cash."
"You're stuck then, I guess."
"She's not that bad."
"Do you know a guy named Dan Padgett?"
"No."
"How about Ernie Carawan?"
"Eando? Yeah."
"On Halloween you met Dan Padgett and a girl named Anne Clemens at the party the Carawans gave."
"That's a good act. Can you tell me what it says on the slip of paper in my pocket?"
"Do you remember talking to Dan? Could you have put some kind of spell on him?"
Waller slid forward off the stool. "That guy. I'll be damned. I did do it then."
"Do what?"
"I was whacked out of my mind. Juiced out of my skull, you know. I got this flash. Some guy was in trouble. This Padgett it was. I didn't think I'd really done anything. Did I?"
"He turns into an elephant on national holidays."
Waller looked at his feet. Then laughed. "He does? That's great. Why'd I do that do you suppose?"
"Tell me."
Waller stopped laughing. "I get these flashes all the time. It bugs my wife. She doesn't know who to sleep with. I might get a flash about it. Wait now." He picked up a hammer from his workbench and tapped the palm of his hand. "That girl. The blonde girl. What's her name?"
"Anne Clemens."
"There's something. Trouble. Has it happened yet?"
"What's supposed to happen?"
"Ouch," said Waller. He'd brought the hammer down hard enough to start a bruise. "I can't remember. But I know I put a spell on your friend so he could save her when the time came."
Max lit a cigarette. "It would be simpler just to tell us what sort of trouble is coming."
Waller reached out behind him to set the hammer down. He missed the bench and the hammer smashed through the top of a shoe box. "Look, Kearny. I'm not a professional wizard. It's like in baseball. Sometimes a guy's just a natural. That's the way I am. A natural, I'm sorry, buddy. I can't tell you anything else. And I can't take that spell off your friend. I don't even remember how I did it."
"There's nothing else you can remember about what kind of trouble Anne is going to have?"
Frowning, Waller said, "Dogs. A pack of dogs. Dogs barking in the rain. No, that's not right. I can't get it. I don't know. This Dan Padgett will save her." Waller bent to pick up the hammer. "I'm pretty sure of that."
"This is Tuesday. On Saturday he's due to change again. Will the trouble come on New Year's Eve?"
"Buddy, if I get another flash I'll let you know."
At the door Max said, "I'll give you my number."
"Skip it," said Waller. "When I need it, I'll know it."
The door of the old Victorian house buzzed and Max caught the doorknob and turned it. The stairway leading upstairs was lined with brown paintings of little girls with ponies and dogs. The light from the door opening upstairs flashed down across the bright gilt frames on which eagles and flowers twisted and curled together.
"Max Kearny?" said Anne Clemens over the stair railing.
"Hi, Anne. Are you busy?"
"Not at the moment. I'm going out later. I just got home from work a little while ago."
This was Wednesday night. Max hadn't been able to find Anne at home until now. "I was driving by and I thought I'd stop."
"It's been several months since we've seen each other," said the girl as Max reached the doorway to her apartment. "Come in."
She was wearing a white blouse and what looked like a pair of black leotards. She wasn't as thin as Max had remembered. Her blonde hair was held back with a thin black ribbon.
"I won't hold you up?" Max asked.
Anne shook her head. "I won't have to start getting ready for a while yet."
"Fine," Max got out his cigarettes and sat down in the old sofa chair Anne gestured at.
"Is it something about Dan, Max?" The single overhead light was soft and it touched her hair gently.
"In a way."
"Is it some trouble?" She was sitting opposite Max, straight up on the sofa bed.
"No," said Max. "Dan's got the idea, though, that you might be in trouble of some sort."
The girl moistened her lips. "Dan's too sensitive in some areas. I think I know what he means."
Max held his pack of cigarettes to her.
"No, thanks. Dan's worried about Ken Westerland, isn't he?"
"That's part of it."
"Max," said Anne, "I worked for Ken a couple of years ago. We've gone out off and on since then. Dan shouldn't worry about that."
"Westerland isn't causing you any trouble?"
"Ken? Of course not. If I seem hesitant to Dan it's only that I don't want Ken to be hurt either." She frowned, turning away. She turned back to Max and studied him as though he had suddenly appeared across from her. "What was I saying? Well, never mind. I really should be getting ready."
"If you need anything," said Max, "let me know."
"What?"
"I said that—"
"Oh, yes. If I need anything. Fine. If I'm going to dinner I should get started."
"You studying modern dance?"
Anne opened the door. "The leotards. No. They're comfortable. I don't have any show business leanings." She smiled quickly. "Thank you for dropping by, Max."
The door closed and he was in the hall. Max stood there long enough to light a cigarette and then went downstairs and outside.
It was dark now. The street lights were on and the night cold was coming. Max got in his car and sat back, watching the front steps of Anne's building across the street. Next to his car was a narrow empty lot, high with dark grass. A house had been there once and when it was torn down the stone stairs had been left. Max's eyes went up, stopping in nothing beyond the last step. Shaking his head and lighting a new cigarette he turned to watch Anne's apartment house.
The front of the building was covered with yards and yards of white wooden gingerbread. It wound around and around the house. There was a wide porch across the building front. One with a peaked roof over it.
About an hour later Kenneth Westerland parked his gray Mercedes sedan at the corner. He was a tall thin man of about thirty-five. He had a fat man's face, too round and plump-cheeked for his body. He was carrying a small suitcase.
After Westerland had gone inside Max left his car and walked casually to the corner. He crossed the street. He stepped suddenly across a lawn and into the row of darkness alongside Anne's building. Using a garbage can to stand on Max pulled himself up onto the first landing of the fire escape without use of the noisy ladder.
Max sat on the fire escape rail and, concealing the match flame, lit a cigarette. When he'd finished smoking it he ground out the butt against the ladder. Then he swung out around the edge of the building and onto the top of the porch roof. Flat on his stomach he worked up the slight incline. In a profusion of ivy and hollyhock Max concealed himself and let his left eye look up into the window.
This was the window of her living room and he could see Anne sitting in the chair he'd been sitting in. She was wearing a black cocktail dress now and her hair was down, touching her shoulders. She was watching Westerland. The suitcase was sitting on the rug between Max and the animator.
Westerland had a silver chain held between his thumb and forefinger. On the end of the chain a bright silver medallion spun.
Max blinked and ducked back into the vines. Westerland was hypnotizing Anne. It was like an illustration from a pulp magazine.
Looking in again Max saw Westerland let the medallion drop into his suit pocket. Westerland came toward the window and Max eased down.
After a moment he looked in. Westerland had opened the suitcase. It held a tape recorder. The mike was in Anne's hand. In her other she held several stapled together sheets of paper.
Westerland pushed her coffee table in front of Anne and she set the papers on it. Her eyes seemed focused still on the spot where the spinning disc had been.
On his knees by the tape machine Westerland fitted on a spool of tape. After speaking a few words into the mike he gave it back to the girl. They began recording what had to be a script of some kind.
From the way Westerland used his face he was doing different voices. Anne's expression never changed as she spoke. Max couldn't hear anything.
Letting himself go flat he slid back to the edge of the old house and swung onto the fire escape. He waited to make sure no one had seen him and went to work on the window that led to the escape. It wasn't much work because there was no lock on it. It hadn't been opened for quite a while and it creaked. Max stepped into the hall and closed the window. Then he went slowly to the door of Anne's apartment and put his ear against it.
He could hear the voices faintly now. Westerland speaking as various characters. Anne using only one voice, not her own. Max sensed something behind him and turned to see the door of the next apartment opening. A big girl with black-rimmed glasses was looking at him.
"What is it?" she said.
Max smiled and came to her door. "Nobody home I guess. Perhaps you'd like to subscribe to the Seditionist Daily. If I sell eight more subscriptions I get a stuffed panda."
The girl poked her chin. "A panda? A grown man like you shouldn't want a stuffed panda."
Max watched her for a second. "It is sort of foolish. To hell with them then. It's not much of a paper anyway. No comics and only fifteen words in the crossword puzzle. Good night, miss. Sorry to bother you. You've opened my eyes." He went down the stairs as the door closed behind him.
What he'd learned tonight gave him no clues as to Dan's problem. But it was interesting. For some reason Anne Clemens was the voice of Westerland's animated cartoon character, Major Bowser.
By Friday Max had found out that Westerland had once worked in night clubs as a hypnotist. That gave him no leads about why Dan Padgett periodically turned into an elephant.
Early in the afternoon Dan called him. "Max. Something's wrong."
"Have you changed already?"
"No, I'm okay. But I can't find Anne."
"What do you mean?"
"She hasn't showed up at work today. And I can't get an answer at her place."
"Did you tell her about Westerland? About what I found out the other night?"
"I know you said not to. But you also said I was due to save her from some trouble. I thought maybe telling her about Westerland was the way to do it."
"You're supposed to save her while you're an elephant. Damn it. I didn't want her to know what Westerland was doing yet."
"If it's any help Anne didn't know she was Major Bowser. And she thinks she went to dinner with Westerland on Wednesday."
"No wonder she's so skinny. Okay. What else did she say?"
"She thought I was kidding. Then she seemed to become convinced. Even asked me how much Westerland probably made off the series."
"Great," said Max, making heavy lines on his memo pad.
"Now she's probably gone to him and asked him for her back salary or something."
"Is that so bad?"
"We don't know." Max looked at his watch. "I can take off right now. I'll go out to her place and look around. Then check at Westerland's apartment. He lives out on California Street. I'll call you as soon as I find out anything."
"In the meantime," said Dan, "I'd better see about getting another bale of hay."
There was no lead on Anne's whereabouts at her apartment, which Max broke into. Or at Westerland's, where he came in through the skylight.
At noon on Saturday Max was wondering if he should sit back and trust to Waller's prediction that Dan would save Anne when the time came.
He lit a new cigarette and wandered around his apartment. He looked through quite a few of the occult books he'd collected.
The phone rang.
"Yes?"
"This is Waller's Sandal Shop."
"The magician?"
"Right, buddy. That is you, Kearny?"
"Yes. What's happening?"
"I got a flash."
"So?"
"Go to Sausalito."
"And?"
"That's all the flash told me. You and your friend get over to Sausalito. Today. Before midnight."
"You haven't got any more details?"
"Sorry. My ex-wife got in last night and I've been too unsettled to get any full scale flashes." The line went dead.
"Sausalito?" said Dan when Max called him.
"That's what Waller says."
"Hey," said Dan. "Westerland's ex-wife."
"He's got one, too?"
"His wife had a place over there. I remember going to a party with Anne there once. Before Westerland got divorced. Could Anne be there?"
"Wouldn't Mrs. Westerland complain?"
"No, she's in Europe. It was in Herb Caen and—Max! The house would be empty now. Anne must be there. And in trouble."
The house was far back from the road that ran up through the low hills of Sausalito, the town just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. It was a flat scattered house of redwood and glass.
Max and Dan had driven by it and parked the car. Max in the lead, they came downhill through a stretch of trees, descending toward the back of the Westerland house. It was late afternoon now and the great flat windows sparkled and went black and sparkled again as they came near. A high hedge circled the patio and when Max and Dan came close their view of the house was cut off.
"Think she's here?" Dan asked.
"We should be able to spot some signs of life," Max said. "I'm turning into a first class peeping torn. All I do is watch people's houses."
"I guess detective work's like that," said Dan. "Even the occult stuff."
"Hold it," said Max. "Listen."
"To what?"
"I heard a dog barking."
"In the house?"
"Yep."
"Means there's somebody in there."
"It means Anne's in there probably. Pretty sure that was Major Bowser."
"Hi, pals," said a high-pitched voice.
"Hello," said Max, turning to face the wide bald man behind them.
"Geese Louise," the man said, pointing his police special at them, "this sure saves me a lot of work. The boss had me out looking for you all day. And just when I was giving up and coming back here with my tail between my legs—well, here you are."
"Who's your boss?"
"Him. Westerland. I'm a full-time pro gunman. Hired to get you."
"You got us," said Max.
"Look, would you let me tell him I caught you over in Frisco? Makes me seem more efficient."
"We will," said Max, "if you'll let us go. Tell him we used karate on you. We can even break your arm to make it look good."
"No," said the bald man. "Let it pass. You guys want too many concessions. Go on inside."
Westerland was opening the refrigerator when his gunman brought Max and Dan into the kitchen.
"You brought it off, Lloyd," said Westerland, taking a popsicle from the freezer compartment.
"I studied those pictures you gave me."
"Where's Anne?" Dan asked.
Westerland squeezed the wrapper off the popsicle. "Here. We've only this minute finished a recording session. Sit down."
When the four of them were around the white wooden table Westerland said, "You, Mr. Kearny."
Max took out his pack of cigarettes and put them on the table in front of him. "Sir?"
"Your detective work will be the ruin of you."
"All I did was look through a few windows. It's more acrobatics than detection."
"Nevertheless, you're on to me. Your overprotective attitude toward Miss Clemens has caused you to stumble on one of the most closely guarded secrets of the entertainment industry."
"You mean Anne's being the voice of Major Bowser?"
"Exactly," said Westerland, his round cheeks caving as he sucked the popsicle. "But it's too late. Residuals and reruns."
Dan tapped the tabletop. "What's that mean?"
"What else? I've completed taping the sound track for episode 78 F Major Bowser. I have a new series in the works. Within a few months the major will be released to secondary markets. That means I don't need Anne Clemens anymore."
Dan clenched his fists. "So let her go."
"Why did you ever need her?" Max asked, looking at Westerland.
"She's an unconscious talent," said Westerland, catching the last fragment of popsicle off the stick. "She first did that voice one night over two years ago. After a party I'd taken her to. She'd had too much to drink. I thought it was funny. The next day she'd forgotten about it. Couldn't even remember the voice. Instead of pressing her I used my hypnotic ability. I had a whole sketch book full of drawings of that damned dog. The voice clicked. It matched. I used it."
"And made $100,000," said Dan.
"The writing is mine. And quite a bit of the drawing."
"And now?" said Max.
"She knows about it. She has thoughts of marrying and settling down. She asked me if $5,000 would be a fair share of the profits from the major."
"Is that scale for 78 shows?" Max said.
"I could look it up," said Westerland. He was at the refrigerator again. "Lemon, lime, grape, watermelon. How's grape sound? Fine. Grape it is." He stood at the head of the table and unwrapped the purple popsicle. "I've come up with an alternative. I intend to eliminate all of you. Much cheaper way of settling things."
"You're kidding," said Dan.
"Animators are supposed to be lovable guys like Walt Disney," said Max.
"I'm a businessman first. I can't use Anne Clemens anymore. We'll fix her first and you two at some later date. Lloyd, put these detectives in the cellar and lock it up."
Lloyd grinned and pointed to a door beyond the stove. Max and Dan were made to go down a long flight of wooden stairs and into a room that was filled with the smell of old newspapers and unused furniture. There were small dusty windows high up around the beamed ceiling.
"Not a very tough cellar," Dan whispered to Max.
"But you won't be staying here," said Lloyd. He kept his gun aimed at them and stepped around a fallen tricycle to a wide oak door in the cement wall. A padlock and chain hung down from a hook on the wall. Lloyd slid the bolt and opened the door. "The wine cellar. He showed it to me this morning. No wine left, but it's homey. You'll come to like it."
He got them inside and bolted the door. The chains rattled and the padlock snapped.
Max blinked. He lit a match and looked around the cement room. It was about twelve feet high and ten feet wide.
Dan made his way to an old cobbler's bench in the corner. "Does your watch glow in the dark?" he asked as the match went out.
"It's five thirty."
"The magician was right. We're in trouble."
"I'm wondering," said Max, striking another match.
"Yon're wondering what the son of a bitch is going to do to Anne."
"Yes," Max said, spotting an empty wine barrel. He turned it upside down and sat on it.
"And what'll he do with us?"
Max started a cigarette from the dying match flames. "Drop gas pellets through the ceiling, fill the room with water, make the walls squeeze in."
"Westerland's trickier than that. He'll probably hypnotize us into thinking we're pheasants and then turn us loose the day the hunting season opens."
"Wonder how Lloyd knew what we looked like."
"Anne's got my picture in her purse. And one I think we all took at some beach party once."
Max leaned back against the dark wall. "This is about a middle-sized room, isn't it?"
"I don't know. The only architecture course I took at school was in water color painting."
"In six hours you'll be a middle-sized elephant"
Dan's bench clattered. "You think this is it?"
"Should be. How else are we going to get out of here?"
"I smash the door like a real elephant would." He snapped his fingers. "That's great."
"You should be able to do it."
"But Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Suppose I don't change?"
"You will."
"We only have the word of an alcoholic shoemaker."
"He knew about Sausalito."
"He could be a fink."
"He's a real magician. You're proof of that"
"Max?"
"Huh?"
"Maybe Westerland hypnotized us into thinking I was an elephant."
"How could he hypnotize me? I haven't seen him for years."
"He could hypnotize you and then make you forget you were."
"Dan," said Max, "relax. After midnight if we're still in here we can think up excuses."
"How do we know he won't harm Anne before midnight?"
"We don't."
"Let's try to break out now."
Max lit a match and stood up. "I don't think these barrel staves will do it. See anything else?"
"Legs off this bench. We can unscrew them and bang the door down."
They got the wooden legs loose and taking one each began hammering at the bolt with them.
After a few minutes a voice echoed in. "Stop that ruckus."
"The hell with you," said Dan.
"Wait now," said Westerland's voice. "You can't break down the door. And even if you could Lloyd would shoot you. I'm sending him down to sit guard. Last night at Playland he won four Betty Boop dolls at the shooting gallery. Be rational."
"How come we can hear you?"
"I'm talking through an air vent."
"Where's Anne?" shouted Dan.
"Still in a trance. If you behave I may let her bark for you before we leave."
"You louse."
Max found Dan in the dark and caught his arm. "Take it easy." Raising his voice he said, "Westerland, how long do we stay down here?"
"Well, my ex-wife will be in Rome until next April. I hope to have a plan worked out by then. At the moment, however, I can't spare the time. I have to get ready for the party."
"What party?"
"The New Year's Eve party at the Leversons'. It's the one where Anne Clemens will drink too much."
"What?"
"She'll drink too much and get the idea she's an acrobat. She'll borrow a car and drive to the Golden Gate Bridge. While trying out her act on the top rail she'll discover she's not an acrobat at all and actually has a severe dread of heights. When I hear about it I'll still be at the Leversons' party. I'll be saddened that she was able to see so little of the New Year."
"You can't make her do that. Hypnotism doesn't work that way."
"That's what you say now, Padgett. In the morning I'll have Lloyd slip the papers under the door."
The pipe stopped talking.
Dan slammed his fist into the cement wall. "He can't do it."
"Who are the Leversons?"
Dan was silent for a moment. "Leverson. Joe and Jackie. Isn't that the art director at BBDO? He and his wife live over here. Just up from Sally Stanford's restaurant. It could be them."
"It's a long way to midnight," said Max. "But I have a feeling we'll make it."
"We have to save Anne," said Dan, "and there doesn't seem to be anything to do but wait."
"What's the damn time, Max?"
"Six thirty."
"Must be nearly eight by now."
"Seven fifteen."
"I think I still hear them up there."
"Now?"
"Little after nine."
"Only ten? Is that watch going?"
"Yeah, it's ticking."
"Eleven yet, Max?"
"In five minutes."
"They've gone, I'm sure."
"Relax."
"Look," said Dan, when Max told him it was quarter to twelve, "I don't want to step on you if I change."
"I'll duck down on the floor by your feet. Your present feet. Then when you've changed I should be under your stomach."
"Okay. After I do you hop on my back."
At five to twelve Max sat down on the stone floor. "Happy New Year."
Dan's feet shuffled, moved further apart. "My stomach is starting to itch."
Max ducked a little. In the darkness a darker shadow seemed to grow overhead. "Dan?"
"I did it, Max." Dan laughed. "I did it right on time."
Max edged up and climbed on top of the elephant. "I'm aboard."
"Hang on. I'm going to push the door with my head."
Max hung on and waited. The door creaked and began to give.
"Watch it, you guys!" shouted Lloyd from outside.
"Trumpet at him," said Max.
"Good idea." Dan gave a violent angry elephant roar.
"Jesus!" Lloyd said.
The door exploded out and Dan's trunk slapped Lloyd into the side of the furnace. His gun sailed into a clothes basket. Max jumped down and retrieved it.
"Go away," he said to Lloyd.
Lloyd blew his nose. "What kind of prank is this?"
"If he doesn't go," said Max, "trample him."
"Let's trample him no matter what," said Dan.
Lloyd left.
"Hell," said Dan. "How do I get up those stairs?"
"You don't," said Max, pointing. "See there, behind that stack of papers. A door. I'll see if it's open."
"Who cares. I'll push it open."
"Okay. I'll go find a phone book and look up Leversons. Meet you in the patio."
Dan trumpeted and Max ran up the narrow wooden stairs.
The elephant careened down the grassy hillside. All around now New Year's horns were sounding.
"Only two Leversons, huh?" Dan asked again.
"It's most likely the art director. He's nearest the bridge."
They came out on Bridgeway, which ran along the water.
Dan trumpeted cars and people out of the way and Max ducked down, holding onto the big elephant ears.
They turned as the road curved and headed them for the Leverson home. "It better be this one," Dan said.
The old two story house was filled with lighted windows, the windows spotted with people. "A party sure enough," said Max.
In the long twisted driveway a motor started. "A car," said Dan, running up the gravel.
Max jumped free as Dan made himself a road block in the driveway.
Red tail lights tinted the exhaust of a small gray Jaguar convertible. Max ran to the car. Anne Clemens jerked the wheel and spun it. Max dived over the back of the car and, teetering on his stomach, jerked the ignition key off and out. Anne kept turning the wheel.
Max caught her by the shoulders, swung around off the car and pulled her up so that she was now kneeling in the driver's seat.
The girl shook her head twice, looking beyond Max.
He got the door open and helped her out. The gravel seemed to slide away from them in all directions.
"Duck," yelled Dan, still an elephant.
Max didn't turn. He dropped, pulling the girl with him.
A shot smashed a cobweb pattern across the windshield.
"You've spoiled it for sure," cried Westerland. "You and your silly damn elephant have spoiled my plan for sure."
The parking area lights were on and a circle of people was forming behind Westerland. He was standing twenty feet away from Max and Anne.
Then he fell over as Dan's trunk flipped his gun away from him.
Dan caught up the fallen animator and shook him.
Max got Anne to her feet and held onto her. "Bring her out of this, Westerland."
"In a pig's valise."
Dan tossed him up and caught him.
"Come on."
"Since you're so belligerent," said Westerland. "Dangle me closer to her."
Max had Lloyd's gun in his coat pocket. He took it out now and pointed it up at the swinging Westerland. "No wise stuff."
Westerland snapped his fingers near Anne's pale face.
She shivered once and fell against Max. He put his arms under hers and held her.
Dan suddenly dropped Westerland and, trumpeting once at the silent guests, galloped away into the night.
As his trumpet faded a siren filled the night.
"Real detectives," said Max.
Both Anne and Westerland were out. The guests were too far away to hear him.
A bush crackled behind him and Max turned his head.
Dan, himself again, came up to them. "Would it be okay if I held Anne?"
Max carefully transferred her. "She should be fine when she comes to."
"What'll we tell the law?"
"The truth. Except for the elephant."
"How'd we get from his place here?"
"My car wouldn't start. We figured he'd tampered with it. We hailed a passing motorist who dropped us here."
"People saw the elephant."
"It escaped from a zoo."
"What zoo?"
"Look," said Max, dropping the gun back into his pocket, "don't be so practical about this. We don't have to explain it. Okay?"
"Okay. Thanks, Max."
Max lit a cigarette.
"I changed back in only an hour. I don't think it will happen again, Max. Do you?"
"If it would make you feel any better I'll spend the night before Lincoln's Birthday with you and Anne."
"How about what?" said Anne. She looked up at Dan. "Dan? What is it?"
"Nothing much. A little trouble with Westerland. I'll explain."
Max nodded at them and went up the driveway to meet the approaching police. Somewhere in the night a final New Year's horn sounded.
TIM BARNUM SHOVED THE rabbit ears all the way down into the portable TV set and pulled the plug out of its socket. It had no effect on the reception. "See," he said to Max Kearny. Tim lifted the still playing set off its low black table and carried it across his apartment. Dropping it down at Max's feet he said, "Does it look like something in your line?"
Lighting a fresh cigarette Max looked down at the bright screen. "It sure isn't something for a repairman."
"But is it occult, Max?" Tim reached out and found his glass.
"Unless NBC has been holding back." Max pushed the set carefully away from him and watched the picture.
On the screen a heavy-set middle-aged man was sitting on a stool playing a guitar. He was, and had been for several minutes, singing a song.
"Hurray for Jeannie,
So sweet and fair.
No one like her anywhere.
Don't wait and don't search.
Just
take Jeannie to the church."
"Same as last week," said Tim, finishing his drink "And the week before."
"Not much of a show." Max stood up.
From the set came the man's voice, talking now. "Married bliss, there's nothing like it. You'll find it really has bachelorhood beat. So don't be left out. Marry Jeanne Horning soon."
"The supply is limited," said Tim, pouring himself another glass of bourbon.
"Who's Jeanne Horning?" asked Max. Fog was coming in under the Golden Gate Bridge.
"A girl I used to know. She had sort of a thing going about me. Finally I dropped the whole business. I wasn't ready to settle down."
Max turned from the window and pointed at the fat man on the set, who was singing again. "And who's this guy?"
"I don't know." Tim set his glass down and grabbed up the TV set. He carried it to a corner and left it with its picture to the wall. The singing went on. "Can you stop it, Max?"
Max lit a new cigarette from the old one. "You know, Tim, I'm just an art director in an ad agency. All this ghost stuff is only a hobby."
"There's no other girl like Jeanne Homing," said the set. "See for yourself. There's no girl nicer than little Jeannie." The singing started up again.
"How long does it last?" Max asked.
"A half hour, every Tuesday."
"Where's Jeanne work?"
"In the rental library at Wollter's Department Store."
"Probably not much in the way of occult reference books there. You think she's behind this."
"Her father."
"Oh. What's he do?"
"He's a spirit medium."
Max frowned. "Huh?"
"Chester M. Horning. He used to be a trick rider in the circus but he developed an allergy to dander. That's how he got into this racket."
"You think he's a fake?"
"They all are."
"Not all," said Max, nodding at the set. There was a click and the set went quiet. It was eight thirty.
Tim inhaled sharply and picked up his drink. "That's that until next week."
"What else does this ghost—we'll call it one for now— do?"
"Well," said Tim, "there's the show every Tuesday. Then there are the radio commercials. They come on every day. In the morning before I go to the bank. And when I get home. Minute versions of what you heard."
"Somebody wants you to marry Jeanne Horning I guess."
Max brushed his crew cut down and reached for his cigarettes.
"You did see it, though," said Tim. "At least I'm not cracking."
"Sure. It's pretty certainly a ghost. What other media does it use?"
"Just radio and TV. And sometimes I find a slogan on my bedroom wall. 'Marry Horning in the morning!' and things like that."
Max walked over to the TV set and tapped it with his foot. "What sort of seances does her father hold?"
"I don't know. She was always after me to go to one. But I didn't want to. That's another reason for our breaking up. How about hypnosis?"
"For her?"
"No, I mean could all this be some kind of mass hallucination?"
"Pretty small audience for that." Max leaned against the wall. "You still hear from Jeanne?"
"I haven't seen her in nearly a month, a few days before this stuff started. But she calls now and then still."
"Can you get us invited to a seance? I'd like to see Horning operate."
"What for?"
Max crumpled his empty cigarette pack. "It might help me get some line on this ghost and see if Horning is behind it."
"Suppose he isn't. Then on top of the ghost I'll be involved with Jeanne again."
"Just one seance."
"Just one firing squad." Tim looked from Max to the silent set. "Okay. I'll call her and say a friend of mine is interested in her father's work. That should do it."
Max nodded and turned the set around. He plugged it in and arranged the antenna. Checking his watch he said, "Mind if I watch part of a show. One of the commercials I did a storyboard for is on."
Tim shrugged. "No, go ahead." Max turned on the set.
Jeanne Horning was a slim girl with shoulder-length auburn hair. She was able to open the door and escort Tim and Max down a long hall and into a curtained living room without speaking or making any facial sign.
"How's Ralph?" asked Tim, sitting in the straight back chair she moved back from the table for him. "Ralph's Jeanne's pet cat."
"We had him fixed." Jeanne moved another chair away from the round mahogany table.
Max sat down. "Thank you." The gold fringe from the table cloth hung down in his lap.
"I don't want any foolishness, Tim." Jeanne left them.
"She's got herself under control," Max said, getting out his cigarettes.
"Looks like. Could be an act, but Jeanne's not usually like that."
The lit match flipped out of Max's hand and was snuffed out in midair with a small popping sound.
"Smoke is a disturbing influence," said the small, deeply tanned old man who parted the beaded curtains and stepped into the room. He had a full head of fine white hair and great tangled white eyebrows. "I am Chester Horning."
"Hello, Mr. Horning," said Tim. "This is my friend, Max Kearny."
"I know." Horning adjusted a padded wing chair at the head of the table. He placed a silver pocket watch and a secretary's note book next to the empty water glass that was already there on the table. Seating himself he said, "You believe in the supernatural, Mr. Kearny?"
"In many cases."
"Tim never credited the little things I showed him while he was dating my daughter. Although, for instance, I was able to provide some excellent examples of levitation."
"A coffee table came down on my foot," said Tim.
Horning waved his small sunburned hands in the air.
"Enough of negative thinking for tonight. The others are coming."
Jeanne was smiling now, holding the arm of a tall wide shouldered young man of about thirty. With them was a thin gray-haired woman in a fur trimmed black suit.
"Mrs. Yewell," said Horning, rising. "And your son has decided to attend also. I'm glad to have you aboard for a seance, Preston."
Preston Yewell smiled vaguely, moving away from Jeanne. He took the chair next to his mother. "I'm still a bit skeptical, sir."
Jeanne touched his shoulder. "You'll see, Pres. I know you're not going to be as negative as some people."
"Watch your feet when the table goes up," Tim said.
Yewell grinned. "My name's Pres Yewell and I'm a Junior Account Exec with Lumbard-Joseph and Associates. What do you guys do?"
They told him.
Yewell looked at Max, his eyes narrowing. "Your name. Somebody told me something about some hobby of yours."
"Quiet please," said Horning, shifting in his chair, working his back against the upholstery buttons. "Someone is here now."
Jeanne turned out the overhead lights. After lighting a hurricane lamp on the mantel she walked softly to the table and sat next to Yewell.
"Remember now," said Homing, "no smoking. My contact is here." His eyes closed and his eyebrows drooped. "Well, folks," he said in a new voice, "perhaps you wonder why I called you here." The voice laughed. "Hi, Jeannie. How you doing?"
"Fine, Uncle Arly."
"I sure hope so. How are things with the boy friend?"
"Fine at the moment."
"You aren't sitting next to him."
"I am, Uncle Arly."
"Oh, there's a new one. Sometimes my view from up in spirit land gets a little fuzzy. Well, let's get down to cases."
Horning, eyes tight shut, sat up and turned his head toward Mrs. Yewell. "You have a problem, honey."
"Most certainly I do, Uncle Arly. Here's the situation. The woman who used to do our cleaning was run down by a diaper laundry truck and I'm certain that she—"
As Mrs. Yewell outlined her problem Tim whispered to Max, "It just occurs to me."
"The voice sounds familiar."
"Sure, and Jeanne told me a little about Uncle Arly. He died about four years ago. Guess what business he was in?"
"Advertising."
"Yeah. He's the one on my Tuesday night show."
"Looks like he's an honest-to-gosh real ghost, too."
"No tricks, huh?"
"I don't think so," said Max. The whole business felt real.
A heavy gold and red trimmed tambourine appeared in the air over Uncle Arly. It floated slowly down the table and whacked Max over the head.
"Ole!" said Uncle Arly's voice. "So much for you ghost gumshoes. I'll send you a slate memo on your problem, Mrs. Yewell. I don't like that boy's vibrations."
Horning shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "Jeanne?"
His daughter frowned at Tim and Max and then turned the room lights on. "What a wet blanket you turned out to be, Tim."
"That's it," said Yewell. "I just thought of it. Kearny, you're an amateur ghost breaker."
"I should have sensed it," said Horning. "I had twinges but I thought it was just my rose fever acting up."
"You'd both best go," said Jeanne, spreading the curtains and pointing into the hall.
Outside in the street it was starting to rain. "Well," said Tim, "Jeanne seems to be getting over me."
"We've got to convince Uncle Arly of that," said Max, stepping into an apartment doorway to light a cigarette. "Or get rid of him. I'll try to have something worked out by next Tuesday, in case he shows up." Smoking thoughtfully he followed Tim to his car.
Max always went to W. R. Pedway's secondhand book store for occult advice. It was Pedway who had first introduced Max to the field. After work the next day Max went there to tell Pedway about Tim Barnum's ghost.
Pedway was on a ladder in the back of the store. "Look at that. I reduced this set of the complete works of George Makepeace Towle to two dollars and it still hasn't moved."
Max leaned against the 25¢ table and frowned up at the small wrinkled man. "Friend of mine's being haunted."
Lighting his corncob pipe Pedway came halfway down the ladder. "Having a sale on the novels of Alice Montgomery Baldy. You interested in them? I bid on them at an auction."
"Why?"
"They were inside a steamer trunk I wanted. Kick the cat off that chair and tell me about the ghost."
Max nudged Pedway's large orange cat onto the floor and took the wicker chair. "This ghost appears every Tuesday night at eight o'clock."
"That's pretty early in the evening for a ghost."
"It's prime TV time. The ghost materializes inside my friend's TV set." Max lit a fresh cigarette and told Pedway more about Uncle Arly.
"What the hell," said Pedway, scratching his straight standing gray hair. "Don't you read any of the occult books I loan you?"
"Sure," said Max, "but since I joined the Book-of-the-Month-Club I have to skim some of them."
"Holy Moley," said Pedway. "It's so simple. Look, you've got the ghost in the set. All you do is bottle it up."
"Beg pardon?"
"Wait a second," said Pedway. He dropped down behind the counter. He brought up a dull-green book and searched through it. "The good thing about this book is that it has colored pictures. Of course, the spells never come out as good as they look in the photos. Yes, here it is."
Max tore a piece of brown wrapping paper from the roll on the counter and copied down the magic formula Pedway was pointing to. "What does it do exactly?"
"Well, look at the picture."
"That's just a retouched photo of an imp in a bottle."
"The spell works as a cork. Once you have the imp or spirit inside the container, this keeps him there."
"Will the TV set still work?"
"No, you have to throw it in the river."
"A $200 TV set? Don't you have a cheaper spell?"
"This is the one that works, Max."
"I'll tell Tim." Max stood up. "Does it have to be a river?"
"The bay will do."
Max watched the cat slide down a stack of Britannicas. "This spell keeps the ghost in there permanently?"
"The spell's only guaranteed for two years, but that should be enough time."
"I'll let you know on Wednesday how it worked."
"I know how it will work," said Pedway, starting back up the ladder.
Wednesday noon Max met Tim in a hofbrau near his agency.
"You think I'm safe then?" Tim asked.
Max sipped his dark beer. "I don't know. I was all set to try the spell out last night. Then Uncle Arly doesn't appear."
"Maybe he's off for the summer," said Tim, giving his plate half a turn. "He must have been some ad man, to keep at it four years after he died."
Max took a cigarette. "I think we'll just have to wait. The radio spots have stopped, too?"
"Everything. They stopped a few days ago."
A handful of silverware dropped down on the table. Then Preston Yewell, carrying a tray of food, sat in the empty chair. "May I join you?"
"Sure."
Yewell put both hands around his coffee mug. "You're an expert on the occult, Kearny."
"Somewhat."
"Ever come across," said Yewell, leaning in, "a haunted billboard?"
Max nodded. "Heard of a few."
"The billboard across from my bus stop is haunted. It used to tell you to eat Kellogg's Rice Krispies. But this morning while I was standing there alone, waiting for the 45 bus, it blurred over. It showed a picture—pardon me, Barnum —of Jeanne Horning. The slogan read: 'Don't be a fool, Yewell. Do it now!' "
"Have you been hearing any radio spots like that?"
Yewell exhaled sharply. "Every seven and a half minutes. Singing commercials."
"That's real saturation," said Max.
"And I don't even have a radio," said Yewell, jerking up his cup. "Just a TV."
"Is Uncle Arly on that?"
Yewell blinked. "By God, it is him. Now that you mention it I thought I knew that voice."
Max unfolded a piece of brown wrapping paper. "You planning to go ahead and marry Jeanne right away?"
Yewell straightened up. "My mother would explode."
"How often does Uncle Arly broadcast on TV?"
"Two or three times a night."
"Maybe we can help you," said Max.
Preston Yewell pushed open the door of his apartment. "The commercials are always louder than the rest of the show," he said.
Uncle Arly was singing and playing. Max lit a cigarette and moved into the room. Standing across from the TV set Max took out his piece of wrapping paper.
"Hey," said Tim Barnum, taking a chair, "you get him in color."
"It's a color set," said Yewell, closing the door. "Well, Kearny?"
Max didn't answer.
"If you like girls, youll really like Jeanne," said Uncle Arly from inside the set.
Max took a piece of chalk from his coat pocket and drew a few symbols on the wall over the screen.
"My landlady hasn't forgiven me for my last party," said Yewell, kneading his eyebrows. "And now we're defacing the walls."
Max frowned over his shoulder. Then he put his cigarette lighter on top of the set. From an inside pocket he brought out a business envelope. The cellophane window showed bright yellow powder. Tossing a handful of the stuff at the lighter flame Max jumped back and read the spell.
"If it doesn't work," said Yewell, dropping into a high-backed rattan chair, "I know I'm not going to clean up the mess."
Uncle Arly had an accordion now and was yodeling.
Max knelt, grabbing his lighter back as he did, and pulled the plug on the set.
Inside Uncle Arly was dancing a polka.
"Tim," said Max, "open the door and then give me a hand carrying this thing out."
"The set absolutely has to go?" asked Yewell, not moving.
"It's part of the spell," said Max, gripping one side of the big cabinet. He and Tim carried it out.
"You've been a great help," Yewell called.
Tim closed the door and they worked the set downstairs.
Uncle Arly was silent now.
On the street he said, "Hey, what are you two boys up to? Some kind of school boy prank?"
"We're going to keep you locked away for awhile," said Max.
"You can't interfere with free speech."
They got the set into the back seat of Tim's car. "You'll be at the bottom of the lake at the Palace of Fine Arts," said Max. "You can talk to anybody you want."
"You know," said Tim, taking the wheel, "it's sort of cruel."
"He's been haunting you, then Yewell."
"Yewell deserves it."
"Maybe so. But a detective just does his job."
"You'd think Jeanne could do better than that," said Tim, putting the key in the ignition.
"You'd think anybody could."
"Tell you what," said Tim. "Suppose I keep Uncle Arly in a closet with a blanket over him. Could you let him out in a month or two?"
"Sure," said Max, shaking out a cigarette, "there's a spell for that, too."
"It might be a good idea to drop in on Jeanne without Uncle Arly being around. And without him, see, her dad's not going to be so confident about his medium business."
"Sounds fine," Max said.
Tim agreed and started the car.
In the back seat, trapped in the television set, the ghost of Uncle Arly got out his guitar and began singing a love song that had been popular in the late 1920s.
ON THE ELEVENTH TAKE, something made the assistant director float up in front of the camera. The set dresser and one of the grips grabbed the man by the ankles and pulled him down and out of the scene. A man in a denim suit was standing next to Max Kearny holding a rosebush. "Some days it goes like this," the man said. He shrugged and walked away.
Max was about a hundred yards from the filming, sitting half way up a ladder. There were forty some people in the sound stage. The shooting of the pilot for Holtz Of The Yard was not going well. Max's ad agency was tentatively interested in the new TV show and it was penciled in on one of the networks for the next season. Although he had come down from San Francisco in his advertising capacity Max was starting to think that his hobby, occult detection, might come in handy.
"Let's see if we can get it this time," said the director.
Somebody said, "Quiet."
Somebody said, "Speed."
"Roll 'em."
"Holtz. Scene fifteen. Take twelve."
Scene fifteen took place in Inspector Holtz's office at Scotland Yard. A girl was to enter and tell the inspector that at a recent fox hunt at her country estate the hounds had ignored the fox and taken off after her father. She suspected foul play. The actress doing the girl was a tall, appealingly awkward blonde and the unexpected foul-ups of the scene were beginning to unsettle her. The actor who was Inspector Holtz, except for shouting "Jesus Christ!" between takes, was still calm.
"And what is the trouble exactly, Miss Clerihew?" he was asking the girl.
"You'll think me a goose," she said, "but there were certain irregularities at our last fox hunt."
"Can you be more specific?"
"Yes, I—"
"Jesus Christ!" said the inspector. His false moustache had somehow come off his face and it was now flying around the office and singing like a canary. It flew out the window and grew silent.
"All right, all right," said the director. "Stop. Cut. All right."
The blonde girl put her hand to her mouth, turned and ran off the set.
"Everybody go home," said the director. "Some days it goes like this. Tomorrow morning we'll start fresh."
Max looked aronnd for the publicity department man who had guided him here. He couldn't spot him. The crew and the actors were slowly wandering away. Max climbed down and cut across the stage, working around pieces of equipment and stepping over cables. He stumbled and went sliding into another set. This was a park, with trees and a silent fountain, and sitting on its one bench was the young actress who had run.
"Beg pardon," said Max.
The girl sniffed and looked up. Even with makeup she had freckles. "Wait. You're Max Kearny. Ben Lenzer pointed you out."
"Oh?"
"Ben's Dan Mishkin's assistant in publicity. I noticed you sitting off in the gloom there." She tapped the bench and moved slightly. "Please sit down. You're the Max Kearny from San Francisco, aren't you?"
"Yes. My agency has tentatively bought this show for a client of ours. I'm an art director and somebody thought it would be valuable for me to watch." He sat down.
"Well, I hope you're also the Max Kearny whose hobby is occult detective work."
"Yes. How'd you know?"
"I have friends in San Francisco," the girl said. "My name is Carolyn Chesney."
Max nodded. "That's right. You were on Ben Casey last week."
"I've got a Kildare coming up where I have the same disease," she said. "Right now I need your help on something occult."
"What exactly?"
"Hollywood is," she began, "a strange town. People are all so damned intense and jumpy. Quarrels and fights start up. I think somebody's put a curse on my uncle."
"Your uncle is Bryan K. Chesney?" asked Max. "He wrote this script for Inspector Holtz, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Carolyn. "I didn't tell Stu, our director, but I'm the reason for all those odd things screwing up the filming. The curse started on my uncle and I guess it's spreading."
"Curses aren't usually contagious," said Max. "What's been happening to your uncle?"
"Starting," said Carolyn, "about a month ago, the same kind of thing that happened here today began happening to my uncle. He'd sit down to write and find that all his typewriter keys had turned to W's. Or that his carbon paper had become adhesive. That may not seem too supernatural, but other times his dictaphone would fly away or his script would jump up and start whacking him over the head. He can't even walk by his pool anymore because something makes him jump in." She exhaled slowly. "It's been innumerable things like that. I see quite a lot of Uncle Bryan and now I've caught it, too."
"Why do you think it's a curse?"
"A hex then. A spell. I don't know." Carolyn shook her head. "My uncle was so happy getting this assignment. The original Holtz stories were written for the magazines by Robert K. Wellington. He and Uncle Bryan were great friends."
All the lights went out. "I can look into the case if you'd like," said Max. "I suppose we ought to leave now."
"Yes," said the girl. She took his hand. "We can stop by Uncle Bryan's house now and you can investigate. Let's go. I'll lead the way."
She led Max across the darkened park and through Inspector Holtz's office and finally into the bright early afternoon.
Bryan K. Chesney was a heavy-set man in his late fifties. He had long graying hair and was down now behind the desk in his redwood den. "It usually stops after awhile, Kearny."
Max and Carolyn were sitting on a leather couch across from Chesney's wide desk. Max lit a cigarette and watched the final volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica leave its shelf and sail at Chesney's head.
"Thank God I got rid of Dr. Eliot's five-foot shelf," said Chesney.
"Who do you think might have put a curse on you?" asked Max.
Chesney waved a hand at the wide window that looked out on Hollywood far below. "Everybody." He raised his head up gingerly and got back into the black swivel chair. "Before we talk about the curse, Kearny, I'd like your opinion of something."
"Uncle Bryan," said Carolyn, "tell Max about the curse right off."
"Soon, soon," said Chesney. He lifted a thesaurus and slid a sheet of yellow paper out from under it. "Scene for the next Inspector Holtz segment. It's a nice character insight thing. I'd like your candid opinion, Kearny. 'The miasma of culpability has finally engulfed you, Dr. Fenicoot. The ever-compelling chimera of evil has you in its inexorable maw at last. So drop that pistol.' I really like that. How about you, Kearny?"
Max hesitated. "I didn't know Robert K. Wellington's style was quite like that."
"I'm loosely adapting and updating, Kearny. Poor Bob's been dead almost ten years now. His stuff needs some updating and punching up."
"Tell him about the curse," said Carolyn.
"Well . . ." said Chesney, carefully putting the page back under the thesaurus. "Supernatural things are definitely happening. I have a suspicion that someone has gone to one of the—as you are aware—numerous lunatic cults that exist in Los Angeles and had me hexed. Jealousy knows few boundaries, Kearny."
The thesaurus whipped off the desk, the yellow page floated up, contracted into a ball and tried to stuff itself in Chesney's mouth. Carolyn cried out and Max dived across the desk and caught the crumpled sheet and pulled it back. For an instant he had felt another hand beneath his.
Chesney coughed. "This is a rough town to be on top in." He dropped in his chair. "Kearny, I'm going to hole up in my bedroom for awhile. I'd like to chat with you further, though. Suppose you and Carolyn come back up tonight after dinner?"
"Can you, Max?" asked Carolyn, moving to her uncle's side as he stood.
"Sure," said Max following them out of the den.
"No harm done," said Chesney, letting Carolyn help him to the foot of the stairs. "That was only a carbon copy. That dialogue isn't destroyed."
When Carolyn and Max were outside the girl said, "So you see, Max. It has to be some sort of curse."
"No," said Max.
Max looked from his stop watch to Carolyn as she came back into the living room of her apartment. "I made a six-and-a-half minute call to San Francisco while you were changing."
"I'm sorry I took so long." She had put on blue denim slacks and a loose striped jersey.
"No, I mean I'll pay you for the call."
"Not if it has something to do with your investigation. We can bill Uncle Bryan." She reached up to the top shelf of her bricks and boards bookcase and took down a fifth of scotch. "Was it about Uncle Bryan's problem?"
"Yes." He gestured at the bottle. "Fine, with a little ice. I called a friend of mine who runs an occult book store up in San Francisco to ask his advice. I want to summon up a ghost."
"Whose ghost?" the girl called from the kitchen.
"Probably Robert K. Wellington's."
Ice dropped into the sink. "So that's what you think?" asked Carolyn from the doorway, the ice cube tray dangling in her hand.
"It pretty much has to be him," said Max. "He had a reputation for the kind of pranks that have been going on, didn't he?"
"I have to wash the ice cubes. They fell in last night's chicken soup," said the girl. "Yes, but a lot of my uncle's pals went in for practical jokes. I remember when I was a girl the whole bunch from the Lakeside Country Club were always doing something. Though Bob Wellington was a prime example."
Max followed her into the cool pale blue kitchen. "There's definitely a ghost involved. Either that or an invisible man. Since the disturbances center around the filming and the writing of stuff based on Wellington's works there's a good chance it's his ghost," said Max. "When did your uncle start working on the Inspector Holtz show?"
"About a month ago I think. Somebody else did a presentation and treatment and then he took it over."
"That'd be about the same time the ghost started acting up, wouldn't it?"
"Well," said Carolyn, "yes." She held an ice eube under the faucet and then flipped it into a green-tinted glass. "If it is Bob Wellington, what's he up to? Is he just kidding around?"
"I have a feeling he's not happy with the adaptions your uncle's been turning out."
The girl craned her neck and bit her tongue as she carefully poured scotch into Max's glass. "But Uncle Bryan is the foremost adapter of Bob Wellington's work in this whole town."
"That may be another thing that's bothering Wellington."
Fixing a smaller drink for herself Carolyn pivoted and walked back into the living room. "What did this friend you called up have to say?"
"He thinks it's Wellington's ghost, too," said Max.
"Suppose it is. How are you going to get rid of him?"
"Exorcising a ghost can be tough," said Max. He watched three, tall, suntanned platinum blondes dive, in sequence, into the oval pool in the apartment's courtyard downstairs. "First I want to see if I can simply communicate with Wellington. Talk to him and see what he wants."
"A combination seance and conference," said the girl.
"Under the right conditions I may be able to contact him."
"The Times said it'll be fair and warm tonight with no eye irritation," said Carolyn. "Will that help any?"
Max turned away from the diving blondes and smiled at her.
The warm night wind strewed leaves in their path and flicked at Carolyn's dark skirt. She shifted the paper sack she was carrying. "I'm disappointed we couldn't find an open music store." They turned into the flagstone walk that led to Chesney's low flat ranch style house. "I still think we should have tried the Salvation Army."
"We don't actually need the tambourine," said Max, patting the newspaper wrapped bundle under his arm.
"Does all this sort of paraphernalia really work?" She held the bag at arm's length and rattled it. "Ouija boards and crystal balls and incense and all?"
"Not very often," said Max. "But all these props should attract Wellington's attention. If we're lucky he won't be able to stop himself from showing up and pulling some tricks. If he appears I'll try to contact him."
"And can you do that?"
"Maybe just calling him by name will do it," said Max. "Anyway, let's hope our fake seance draws him out."
"We've got a nice clear quiet night for it," the girl said as they neared the house.
A gong began clanging.
"What the hell?" said Max.
"Bob Wellington already?"
The clanging was not accompanied by the fluting of shepherd's pipes. Yellow smoke came spinning around the side of the house from the direction of the terrace. "Wait here," said Max. He ran for the terrace.
The smoke was cascading out of the French windows on the side of the house. Max moved closer.
"Great," said someone inside, "you're getting something to materialize already."
"Hello in there," Max called through the smoke.
"Speak, speak," said a soft, burred voice. "Speak, demon, and tell us what you wish?"
"I wish you'd stop ringing that damn gong."
A crewcut head showed in the smoke. "Who the hell are you?" A tall young man in a dark suit stepped out onto the terrace. "You're no evil spirit."
"I'm Max Kearny. Carolyn Chesney asked me to investigate her uncle's ghost."
Cocking one eye the big man said, "Let's see your license."
"Occult detectives aren't like private eyes," said Max. "Anyhow, it's only a hobby with me. I'm an agency art director."
"No offense," said the man, shaking Max's hand. "I'm Bud Stoops, Bry Chesney's agent. With Hollywood Artists, Incorporated. You with the ad agency that's interested in the Holtz package?"
"Yeah."
"Fine, that's fine." He twisted his head back and called, "Professor, come on out here. Hope you won't get upset, Max, but I've hired a pro to get to work on the little problems Bry Chesney has been having."
A small loose-limbed man in a white duck suit came through the smoke. He had a thin moustache and straight, side-parted black hair. He was holding a dragon-decorated brass gong and swinging a mallet. "I am Norbert Sanjak."
"This is Max Kearny," said Stoops. "Show him your credentials, professor."
"Hold the gong," said Sanjak. He reached into a breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a large fat wallet. "A photostat of my diploma from the Ohio University of Occult Science, my identification card from the St. Louis Academy of Supernatural Police Science, and my diploma from the Pasadena College of Applied Mental-Physics, of which I am now president and founder."
"That's nice engraving," said Max, handing back the wallet.
"Tell him your theory, professor."
"I sensed, when we were still a block downhill, that an evil aura had come to possess this house," said Sanjak, retrieving his gong. "Violent exorcism is the only remedy." He ticked his head at the smoke-filled living room. "I've got three of my occult smudge pots going in there."
"Three's a lucky number," said Max.
Carolyn had come up and was standing next to Max. "How long is all this going to take, Bud?"
"You never know, honey," said Stoops. "Your uncle and I are going to play cards up in his bedroom till things are fixed up." He shook hands with Max. "No offense now?" Kissing Carolyn on the cheek he went away inside.
"Dambala," said Sanjak.
"Beg pardon?" asked Max.
"Please," said Sanjak. "The demon voices are commencing to speak through me. Mr. Kernroy, this is no place for dilettantes. If you will remain out of the way until I've thoroughly exorcised the house and immediate environs, I will appreciate it." He vanished back into the yellow smoke and the gong commenced ringing.
Carolyn let the paper sack of seance equipment drop sadly to her side. "I don't think Uncle Bryan meant anything by letting Sanjak go to work. It's Bud's idea I'm sure."
"Damn it," said Max, checking his watch. "Now we'll have to wait until Sanjak stops kicking the gong around."
"Listen," said Carolyn. "I've got my script in my purse. Suppose I take it up to one of Uncle Bryan's guest rooms and go over it for an hour or so. By that time Sanjak should have his act finished and we can get back to work."
Max frowned. "Okay," he said. "I'll be unobtrusive till then."
"Want to come up and help me?"
Max shook his head. "No. I'll wander around."
The smoke was thinning in the library. Professor Sanjak was off exorcising the tennis court. Max lit a new cigarette and scrutinized the book shelves. Dusty, on a bottom shelf, he found a stack of old slick magazines. Max checked the contents pages and found that all the magazines contained stories by Robert K. Wellington.
After locking the French windows Max closed the library door and sat in the wide-armed easy chair under the brightest floor lamp. He remembered reading one of Wellington's novels in a college survey course, once, but he didn't know anything about the short stories.
He smoked and read one called "Poverty Row." It wasn't bad and Max started on another one. The gong was fainter now, off by the pool probably. He lit a fresh cigarette from the old one and hunched down some in the chair.
"What did you think of that last one?"
The magazine he'd just dropped on the reading table was floating three feet in front of him. "Pretty good, Mr. Wellington."
The hand that held the magazine materialized. Then the arm that went with it. "You knew it was me?"
"I was pretty sure," said Max.
"Nobody reads my stuff anymore," said Wellington. He was visible entirely now. A medium-sized man, plump, with a bristly moustache. He was wearing gray flannel slacks and a dark blazer with a paisley ascot. "Excuse the informal clothes. It was the undertaker's idea."
"Why exactly are you haunting Chesney?"
"That bastard," said the ghost of Robert K. Wellington. He sat on the arm of the couch opposite Max.
"You're supposed to be friends."
"We played golf." Wellington scratched his chin. "You wouldn't think you could develop an allergy this late in the game, but I have. I'll tell you—Max Kearny, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I don't hear too well across the gulf sometimes," said Wellington. He crossed his legs and locked his hands over his knee. "Did you ever see a movie called The Three Loves Of Edna?"
"No," said Max. "I heard it was a turkey."
"Exactly. It made me sick and I saw it two years after I died. That picture was written by Bryan Chesney and supposedly based on a novel of mine. But that wasn't enough. Chesney did even worse. My Paris novel was turned into Love On The Eiffel Tower by him." Wellington scowled. "To top it off he adapted my bullfight book into Teenage Matador."
"There was another TV series, too, wasn't there?"
"Oh, yes," said Wellington. "Some great yarns I did for Black Mask back in the Thirties. That dog of a show barely lasted thirteen weeks. Max, what is really terrible is that nobody ever blames Chesney. He's clever enough to always adapt or work with someone else. Thirty years he's gotten by in this town with no talent. Me, who won two Pulitzer prizes, they think I'm a bum now. Chesney is an honored veteran of the industry."
"So when you heard he was going to do the scripts for the Inspector Holtz series you decided to haunt him."
"Damn right, Max. Did you know they had a hell of a struggle getting that series off the ground at all. Why? Because the word in Hollywood now is that Wellington's a bomb. No box office pull, no rating draw." He slapped his fist into his palm. "I'm not going to let up until I drive Chesney crazy. Today I even haunted Carolyn—and I used to bounce her on my knee. But I've vowed that Chesney will never murder another one of my stories. Never."
Max shook out a cigarette. "Can you smoke?"
"Yes, but no thanks, I've given it up."
"Who do you think should adapt your stuff?"
Wellington frowned. "That's right. You're an ad agency man. You want to see the damn Inspector Holtz show get on the air."
"More or less."
"There's a friend of mine named Alex Sanderson. He hasn't worked much in the past year. He's the one, though, who can do my kind of stories. We did a couple of good pictures together back when I was alive."
"Suppose Chesney agreed," said Max, "to work with Sanderson on the scripts. And also agreed to give you final approval on all material used."
Wellington grinned, then chuckled. "Say, that's a great idea. I never thought of getting Chesney to sign an agreement. Let's draw it up. We'll put a lot of clauses in it. Then if Chesney doesn't abide by it I'll really do a job of haunting on him."
"Did any of that gong ringing and smudge burning bother you?" asked Max, crossing to a desk in the corner of the library.
"That crap? No."
"Fine," said Max. "Then we shouldn't have any trouble persuading them to sign."
Following the sound of the gong Max cut across the moonlit grounds. Down beyond a greenhouse he found Professor Norbert Sanjak sitting on a stone bench and slamming the gong while he smoked a thin black cigar.
"Professor," Max said.
"Kearnly," said Sanjak, swinging his feet to the ground. "Stand off. You really will have to withdraw. The exorcising is in a crucial phase."
"Just wanted to tell you that the trouble was caused by the ghost of a man named Robert K. Wellington. He's withdrawn now."
"Ghost?"
"Yes," said Max. "We've all signed and witnessed an agreement and there shouldn't be any more trouble."
Slowly Sanjak let the gong grow silent. Then he jammed it under his arm. "Signed an agreement," he muttered. "Signed an agreement." He turned and walked toward the house. "The mercantile spirit is creeping into everything."
THE BEACH ON THE OTHER SIDE of the fence sloped down slowly to the quiet ocean. Max Kearny waited but no one came to warn him about trespassing. He braced himself with one hand against the redwood boards of the fence and took off his shoes and socks. He tied the laces together and hung the shoes around his neck.
The sand was warm, streaked with bright pebbles and broken seashells. Max walked down beyond the scrub-topped dunes and then kept parallel with the ocean. A seagull came walking toward him, then angled away as though it were crossing a street to avoid him. The surf hissed in and then slid away and the clam holes popped all along the wet sand.
Standing in a windless cove between low sand hills was a painter's easel. An empty canvas chair fluttered gently in front of the easel and a wooden paint box sat open on the ground near it. Max crossed the sand and looked at the painting. The small canvas showed several men in red mackinaws doing something to rows of trees. Max leaned closer. The men were hanging up syrup buckets probably. In the background among the stick straight trees a horse and buggy was passing.
Max turned from the picture and lit a cigarette. He'd seen a whole wall of pictures like this yesterday in Hollywood at one of the newer art galleries. They were by somebody who signed herself Aunt Jenny and would cost you $1,000 each. Aunt Jenny's favorite motif was sap buckets, with an occasional snow storm thrown in.
"Hello, Max."
Max turned again. Standing next to the painting was Joan McNamara. She was a tall blonde girl, deeply tanned now, wearing white shorts and a blue denim shirt.
"I saw an easel," Max said, "I thought maybe it was yours."
Joan frowned. "What made you think that?"
"You still are an artist, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said, smiling. "It's good to see you, Max. What is it—two years?"
"Since you and Ken moved down here from San Francisco."
"You're still with the same agency and all up there?" Joan sat down in the canvas chair, angling it to face Max.
"Yeah. That's why I'm down here. To watch them tape some commercials I did the story boards for." He dropped his shoes down on the sand. "You said you had a problem."
"I was so glad when you phoned us and said you were down for a week. You still do have your hobby?"
"The occult business," said Max. "Yes."
A gate slammed and then two people appeared, coming toward Max and Joan. One was a tall young man in white duck pants and a pullover cablestitch sweater. With him was an old woman in a flowered silk dress. Her hair was tinted pale blue and she wore an LA Dodgers baseball cap over it.
"Mrs. Willsey and Val," Joan said to them. "This is our friend, Max Kearny. He's an artist, too. Max, Mrs. Willsey and her son, Val Willsey."
Max shook hands with Val.
"Mother is Aunt Jenny," Val said, grinning at the half done painting.
"I've seen her work," said Max.
"Do you paint also?" asked Mrs. Willsey, taking the canvas chair Joan stood to give her.
"No," said Max. "I'm just an art director in an ad agency."
"Sold out?" said Val.
"We didn't have maple trees where I grew up," said Max.
"I didn't touch a brush until I was past forty-three," said Mrs. Willsey. "That was more years ago than I'd care to have you guess. Now I do at least three canvases a week."
"Mother's having a one man show at the Alch Gallery on LaCienega next month."
"At first I simply copied colored photos from the magazines," said Mrs. Willsey. "Once I even copied the creation of the world from Life magazine. Now, of course, 1 utilize my own girlhood for subject matter. Paint what you know."
Joan caught Max's arm. "Max will be staying with Ken and me over the weekend. I imagine you'd like a drink or something, Max, after driving all the way from Hollywood to Osodoro Beach."
"Fine," said Max.
They said goodbye to Aunt Jenny and her son and started back across the beach toward the house Joan and Ken McNamara were living in,
"The place is awful, isn't it?" Joan said.
"No. But it's big as hell."
"At least it's not Moorish."
"It's whose house? Ken's dad's?"
"Ewen McNamara himself, yes. He's retired from the movie business and is living in Arizona. He gave us the damn place more or less."
"What's Ken doing?"
Joan shrugged. "He doesn't have a job right now. I'm doing pretty well. Freelancing ad stuff and selling a painting now and then."
"I thought Ken had somebody to finance the boat."
"Boat?"
"You wrote he was going to prove Heyerdahl wrong and do something in the Pacific with a raft."
"Oh, yes. No, Ken decided not to. All the bomb tests out there and all. He thought he'd be arrested as a pacifist." Joan stopped and pointed at the driftwood log. "Let's sit there for a minute. I take it you didn't find Ken back at the house?"
"No. Nobody. I decided to look for you on the beach."
Joan sat on the log and stretched her legs straight out in front of her. "Now, Max, you've made a lifetime study of the supernatural."
"No," said Max, sitting beside her. "Only the past couple of years."
"Well, you know enough." She spread her fingers wide and slid her hands down her legs to her knees. Rocking slightly she said, "Living by the ocean has been quite a thing."
"You've picked up quite a tan."
"Ken, too. Wait till you see him. No, but, what I mean is that especially at night there's something about the ocean. You know. You've read all the stuff about the mysteries of the deep and the poems what's-his-name Arnold and John Masefield wrote."
"I like Popeye, too. Is what's bothering you the ocean?"
"You mustn't talk to Ken about this."
"Okay, I guess."
"We have separate bedrooms now, you know."
"It wasn't in the papers."
"I mean we've been having all sorts of disagreements and such."
"I'm sorry."
"When Ken was doing the masks he got the idea he'd like to work nights and it developed into his using one of the spare bedrooms as a workshop and finally just sleeping there, too."
"Masks?"
"He met a fellow in Caliente who sold him two hundred masks, the kind they make down there, for fifty dollars. Ken had the idea he'd make lamps out of them. With sombreros for shades. The lightbulbs made them catch fire, though, and he gave it up."
"And the trouble?"
"He's having an affair with a mermaid."
Max stood up, dropping his shoes. "This isn't one of his projects? This is something he's actually doing?"
Joan said, "Yes, I'm afraid so." She put one hand over her eyes like a visor. "I thought maybe you could investigate."
"Like Peekaboo Pennington and get flash pictures?" Max knelt in the sand. "What gave you these suspicions about a mermaid?"
"Well," said Joan. "About two months ago I became aware that Ken was slipping out at night. He didn't take the car and if anyone picked him up I'd hear that, too. He'd be gone sometimes for hours. When I'd get his clothes ready to wash I'd find sand in the cuffs and seaweed smears. I know he goes down to the beach in the middle of the night, Max."
"If he goes with you in the daytime couldn't that be how he gets the sand and stuff?"
"All right. I made a special point of checking. He wears warmer clothes at night and in the morning there's sand all over them."
"And how come it's got to be a mermaid he's meeting?"
"You know Ken's father had a lot of the things from his movie studio moved here when it closed down," Joan said. "In fact, we have all those out-buildings full of stuff. But in the house there's a library. All kinds of obscure books that McNamara Studios had in their research department. A whole wall of books on the occult. I know Ken's been reading them lately. I found out which books he's been taking off the shelves. The books are all on the subject of mermaids."
"Whole books on mermaids?"
"And related subjects," said Joan. "He's involved with some sea woman."
"You've never tried to follow him? Or asked him about it?"
"I'm afraid to follow him," Joan said. "And asking him outright would only lead to a great debate."
"I didn't know you and Ken were," began Max.
"Growing apart? Since we moved in here it's been advancing. This place and Ken's not having a job. You're sure going to have a fun-filled weekend." Joan shook her head. "These past two months, though, Max, it's been different. The way Ken's acting. I know it's not just some other woman. It's a mermaid."
Max put his hands in his pockets and watched the seagulls skim along over the water.
"Max?"
"Yes?"
"If Ken asks say I came out here with you. Don't mention the Willseys unless you have to."
"I don't have to."
Joan smiled hopefully at him. "You'll figure everything out, Max. I know."
"Sure," Max said. He didn't smile back at her.
The tapestries that hung stiffly down between the shelves in the library were faded and cryptic.
"What?" Ken McNamara said to Max.
"I was wondering what battle the tapestries represent," Max said, casually moving near the shelf Joan had nodded at earlier.
"I don't know," said Ken. "Something that Tyrone Power fought in. They're all props from one of my dad's pictures."
Things fell over in the kitchen.
Ken put his drink on a gargoyle legged table and went to the doorway. "You okay out there, Joan?"
"Where'd you put the wine vinegar?" his wife called.
Ken hesitated. "We're all out," he called back finally.
Max lit a cigarette and looked up at the rows of occult hooks.
"Listen, Max," said Ken.
"Yeah?"
"Wait." Ken closed the cherub covered door. "You do detective work, don't you?"
"Only occult stuff. As a hobby."
"No hard-boiled things?"
"I beat a werewolf two falls out of three last fall."
"I mean the usual sleazy private op work."
"Divorce and motel?"
"Joan's having an affair," Ken said, walking by the row of German Renaissance beer steins on the mantel and tapping each one with his forefinger.
"Oh, so?" Max looked around for an ashtray.
"Use the mummy case over there," said Ken. "She sneaks out at night."
Max lifted the lid of the flat lying case that rested on a wrought-iron stand near the fireplace. "The mummy does?" The case was half filled with cigarette butts. He added his and dropped the lid.
"No, for Christ sake, Joan. She's slipping around. And you know where she goes?"
"Sleeping around is the phrase."
"Whatever. You know where she goes?"
"Down to the beach?"
"No. Over to visit this guy named Val Willsey. A beach boy type. Lives in the estate next door with his mother. I'm sure Joan's seeing him." He stopped and scowled at Max. "What's the matter with you anyway? This is serious."
Max lit a new cigarette. "What's the matter with you? Back in San Francisco you and Joan always looked like House Beautiful's couple of the month."
"Do they have a couple of the month?"
"I'll check with media. Now what the hell is wrong?"
Ken sat down in a leather chair. "I don't know. The last year things have been going wrong. Since I lost the Orange Rupert concession."
"Orange Rupert?"
"The soft drink they sell along the highways in stands that look like oranges with a window in them. I had one two miles from here, on 101 just outside of Osodoro. But they took it away from me. I was showing a profit, too."
"Why?"
"The orange started to peel."
"Come on."
"The paint did. Kept coming off the damn thing. All the other damn Orange Rupert oranges were orange. Mine was rusty silver. It wouldn't stay orange."
Max took a book from a shelf. "Have you seen Joan over there with this Willsey guy?"
"No. I'm not a sneak, Max."
"But you've got a hunch, huh?"
"Right."
"Mermaids And Other Creatures Encountered By A Norwegian Whaling Captain," Max said, reading the title of the weathered book. "You read any of these?"
Ken blinked. "No. No, I don't. That's more your kind of crap." He rose. "Now about Joan."
The door of the library swung open. "Well," said Joan, "there's no vinegar. But, such as it is, dinner's ready. Okay?"
"Sure," said Ken. "See if you recognize the dining room table, Max. They used it in a picture my dad made with Douglas Fairbanks."
Max put the mermaid book back on the shelf and followed Joan and Ken down the high shadowy corridor to the dining room.
Everything was white with moonlight. The untended shrubs, the vast unclipped lawns and the great unclassifiable McNamara house. Max was sitting in a clump of damp ferns with his hands cupped over the bright tip of his cigarette. Far down hill the ocean made low tumbling sounds.
The gabled part of the house roof had a clock steeple stuck on one of its peaks. The clock showed one A.M. The darkness in among the shrubbery was dotted with frog calls and cricket chirps. Max felt his eyes start to close. He exhaled smoke and then took several deep breaths of the cold night air. He shook his head and widened his eyes. Finally he got himself almost awake again.
A dark figure appeared on the wide marble steps that wound down from the Dutch door at the side of the house. The figure moved off down the driveway, heading for the out-buildings. It was Ken.
This didn't seem right. Max ground his cigarette into the dirt. He'd picked this side of the house to watch because it faced the ocean.
But Ken wasn't heading for the beach. Max followed, keeping off the driveway gravel as much as he could.
There were a half dozen dissimilar buildings on the grounds behind the main house. One looked like a Gothic cathedral built to the scale of a motel cottage. Another was a large two story building that looked something like a Midwest bank. Between these two was an Arabian Nights sort of building, the size of a tract home. Ken went into this one.
Max had the impression that Ken was carrying a package carefully in front of him.
Cutting down a flagstone path Max edged along the side of the Arabian structure. Flickering light showed at its horseshoe shaped windows.
Directly behind this building was one that resembled an airplane hanger. Piled in front of it was a tangled assortment of chairs. Max picked three that seemed still in fair shape, hoping they weren't some of McNamara's breakaway furniture. In among the nest of Georgian dining room chairs Max found some spare table boards.
Back under the arched window he put a board between two chairs and put the third chair on top of the board. He climbed up on the whole thing.
A lantern and brass lamp were burning in the room below. The whole place was full of props from old McNamara's Eastern pictures. Piles of wrought-iron doors and stacks of gilt trellises. Scatterings of peacock feathers and patterned silks, brass gongs and silver censers. In the center of all the confusion of worn out background pieces was an actual pool. It was large, its water a filmy green. Bordering it was real sand and jungle shrubbery. On a prop rock at the pool's edge was Ken, sitting with a salad bowl in his lap.
Ken dipped his hand into the bowl and brought out a handful of what seemed to be shrimp salad.
"I got the wine vinegar for it this time, LJ," Ken said.
"Mr. LJ is in conference," said a rasping voice. "He suggests you make an appointment."
"You're still on this kick, LJ?"
"Mr. LJ."
"Anyway, I made an appointment this afternoon. Remember?"
"We'll consult our appointment pad."
Max strained to see what it was that was talking from the pool.
"I can't wait around here all night, LJ. Come off it."
"Do you good to cool your heels in the waiting room for awhile. We can find no record of your appointment. What was the nature of your business with Mr. LJ?"
"You're supposed to fix things up between Joan and me."
"Full names please. Last name first and please print."
"How can I print when I'm talking?"
"Perhaps you'd like to take your business to one of our competitors?"
"I'll take the shrimp, too, if you don't shape up," said Ken. "What kind of water spirit are you if you can't even do any magic?"
There was a splashing at the darkest end of the pool and something swam toward Ken. "Who said I was a water spirit?" A fat blue fish nearly a foot and a half high pulled itself up on the rock with Ken. The pulling was easy because the fish had arms and legs. "You sure it's wine vinegar?"
"Yes."
LJ jabbed a blue hand into the salad bowl and began eating. "Not as good as a commissary, but it'll do."
"If you aren't a water spirit, what are you?"
"Mr. LJ is all you have to know."
"I've looked through all my dad's damned books on this sort of thing. And I can't quite pin you down."
"McNamara was strictly a shlep," said LJ, finishing the salad.
"And how come you're talking like this lately?"
"So why shouldn't I?" said LJ. "I've been all up and down the coast here."
"You didn't talk that way when I found you on the beach."
"So I should be consistent just to impress a third-rate creep like you."
"Okay, forget it, LJ," said Ken. "I know you have magic powers."
"How else did I get so far. Besides sheer guts, I owe the rest to magic. Out in the ocean it's dog eat dog. You don't stay on top for three hundred years just on luck."
"Isn't one of your powers the ability to tell what's going on?"
"Sure. Like now I'm sitting here with you."
"In places other than here. You can tell me where Joan goes when she sneaks off."
"It's possible I could," said LJ, more or less sitting down and crossing his legs.
"And you could work some kind of spell to make her stop her affair."
"So why not."
"It's been over seven weeks since I brought you here. And the results haven't been much so far."
"I tell you, Ken baby, Rome wasn't built in a day. Not even by DeMille. So don't be anxious. We'll work us out something. Meanwhile, before you make an appointment for tomorrow you should locate some lobster for yours truly." The blue fish stood up and stretched its arms. "Excuse it, I've had a tough day."
"Lobster?"
"I can maybe see you tomorrow morning around eleven, Ken sweetie. See you around the lot." LJ dived back into the pool.
Max let himself silently down to the ground. He waited until the lights went out and he saw Ken cutting back toward the house. Then he put the chairs and boards back.
The front door of the house clicked quietly and Joan, with her hands tight in the pockets of a gray belted raincoat, came out into the night. Max stopped moving. He had been coming around from the out-buildings and he halted now in a scattering of lemon trees.
Joan ran across the tangled grounds and vanished in among a blurred labyrinth of hedges at the far end of the place.
Dropping his cigarette butt into the Grecian urn near the sundial, Max followed Joan.
The hedges gave way finally to a spike-topped iron fence. Up across a half acre or more of close cropped lawn sat the Willsey house. Max spotted Joan, a black silhouette bobbing, moving toward the house.
Max wiped his palms on his pants and got a grip on the black wrought-iron bars. He got himself over, tearing only one cuff.
Joan went down an arbored path and into a Spanish style guest house. Its lights came on.
Max came up and looked in the window. Joan had taken off her coat and was putting on a smock. She had a canvas set up on an easel and, as Max watched, she started painting.
Max went away finally, puzzled. For some reason Joan was ghosting paintings for Aunt Jenny. She even had a real sap bucket up to use as a model.
Max bent a match folder open and snapped it between the pages of the thick book. He set it aside and opened another book. He had a hunch what LJ was and he hoped the occult books in the McNamara collection would provide him with more specifics.
The morning sun was bright at the library windows now and the chill of the room was lifting. There was a soft knock on the door and Joan came in. Her hair was tied back and she had on a blue robe. "Did you see her?"
"Who?" said Max, making another book mark.
"The mermaid," Joan said, sitting across from him.
The mantel clock struck eleven and a team of allegorical figures popped out. Max waited until they'd gone indoors again and then he said, "Are you working for the Willseys?"
"Who said that?"
"I saw you over there last night. Painting one of those god awful Aunt Jenny abortions."
"Your bloodhound instincts really ran wild. It's Ken you're supposed to watch."
"The sea air keyed me up. I got such a kick out of following him I decided to track you, too."
"There's nothing supernatural about what I'm doing," Joan said. The lace of her slip showed along the robe edge and she traced its pattern with her finger. "I wanted to get some kind of money ahead. So we wouldn't have to depend on Ken's father. Mrs. Willsey asked me to help her on one of her paintings. That was four or five months ago. Aunt Jenny likes the fun of painting. Laying it out and finishing it up tire her. I've painted at least part of all her things. Lately I ghost whole paintings."
"Then it's you who's responsible for the Aunt Jenny boom down here."
"Probably. Anyway I get 40% of everything I do. I opened an account in a bank in Santa Monica." Joan noticed her moving hand and stopped it. She dropped both hands in her lap. "But what did you find out about Ken?"
"Is he around?"
"No. He drove off early. He's not back yet. Didn't you trail him this morning?"
"I overslept," said Max. "There is something."
"Something?"
"A fish."
"Ken's having an affair with a fish?"
"No, he's trying to get advice from the fish."
Joan turned toward the window, "That's the car coming back. What fish? What sort of advice? He's not still worried about the lighthouse business? The company said they'd refund the deposit because you can't get to the island except by autogiro."
"Let's just limit it to this fish. No other projects."
"Is the fish in the ocean? Does Ken visit it there?"
"No. It's in that Arabian-looking building out back. In the pool."
"What sort of fish is it, Max? A shark or something dangerous."
"A little blue fish with arms and legs. It talks and does magic."
Joan shook her head. "I don't understand. I've never heard of ..."
There was a great cloud of yellow smoke suddenly around Joan. Then a loud explosion.
"Joan." Max jumped for her chair.
The chair teetered and slammed over sideways. Joan was gone.
Max spun around. The room was empty, the door still closed.
Max opened it and ran out into the hall. The house was quiet. Max went out the side door that led back to the outbuildings.
Coming down the path toward him was Ken.
"Did you give the lobster to LJ?" Max said, pulling up.
"Had to drive all the way to Santa Monica for it but I— who told you about LJ?"
"Joan just vanished."
"Off with Val Willsey probably. Or maybe just shopping," said Ken. "I'm willing to admit she could be just shopping."
"She doesn't usually vanish in a puff of yellow smoke, does she?"
"No, she takes the Volkswagen. Max? You mean Joan's disappeared by magic?"
"Why not? You've been goading LJ into doing something. Apparently you've finally succeeded in bringing him into action."
Ken said, "This isn't the sort of solution I expected."
Someone said "Yoo hoo."
"Max, I think I heard something strange."
"Yoo hoo," called a woman's voice.
"Is that some magic phrase, Max?"
"Sounds more like yodeling." Max turned.
Coming from the front of the house was Aunt Jenny. She waved her Dodgers cap at them. "Did Val happen to stop by here?" she called.
"See," said Ken. "It's an open secret."
"Is he missing?" asked Max.
"I'm beginning to think so," said the old woman as she joined them. "He vanished in a cloud of ugly smoke. That isn't like Val at all."
"LJ again," said Max.
"Beg pardon?"
"We'll tell Val you were asking after him," Max said. "I'm pretty sure he'll be back by this afternoon."
"Will there be any more smoke? We did settle out here to get away from the smog. If Val's going to take to coming and going in enormous gusts of smoke I don't think we'll have gained much."
"No more smoke," said Max, smiling and guiding Aunt Jenny around to the front of the house.
Ken followed. He waited until the old woman was into the hedges. Then he said, "Damn it. What's happening? Are Joan and Val shacked up in the fourth dimension someplace?"
"You can't get in without luggage," said Max. "Look, where did you find LJ?"
"That bastard. Here I butter him up for weeks and he does this." Ken hit his fist into his palm. "He washed in down at the beach a couple months ago. He seemed like an out of the ordinary sort of fish and I put him in the old pool. When it turned out he was probably magic I decided to get him to help out with Joan. I had to turn to somebody. With Joan having an affair."
"You should have tried Abigail Van Buren first," said Max. "And Joan isn't having an affair."
"What makes you say that?"
"I looked through some windows and peeked over some shrubs. She's ghosting Aunt Jenny pictures to make extra money."
"It could be I've screwed up some then."
"That's a possibility."
"I'll fix LJ, Max. I'll stand up to him and tell him to knock it off and tell me what's become of Joan." Ken stopped. "Max, she'll come back somehow, won't she?"
Max nodded. "She'll come back." He shook out a cigarette and lit it. "Did he talk like a Hollywood type when you found him?"
"No, that's only lately. In fact, he had some vague European accent when I found him."
"I think he's some kind of old world elemental spirit," said Max. "We have to have some weapon before we talk to him."
"A water spirit," said Ken. "I thought so, too. But none of the pictures in the reference books look like LJ."
"Maybe the guy who did the illustrations never saw one like LJ."
"That's right. Before television they went on hearsay a lot more than now."
"A spell to control a water elemental should work on LJ," said Max. "Even if he's only probably a second-string water spirit."
"There's a couple of good spells in one of the books."
"I know," said Max. "Let's see what we can work out."
They ran back into the house.
Ken looked over Max's shoulder into the kitchen sink. "We sprinkle him with that stuff and that's all?"
Max looked from the book of spells to the gray-green liquid in the sink. "According to this. It's not the top magic fluid, but it's the best we can do with household ingredients."
"How would a siphon be? A seltzer bottle to spray the junk at him with."
"You have one? I thought they only used those in comedies."
"That's where this one came from. A picture of my dad's." Ken went to the white doored cabinet at the kitchen end and felt inside. "That book is over three hundred years old. Suppose the spell is stale."
Max checked through the drawers and found a ladle and a funnel. "LJ is over three hundred years old, too. It should fit."
Ken put the bottle on the drain board and Max filled it with the fluid. "Don't spill any, Max."
"There's enough."
"I mean Joan'll get mad if we make a mess in her kitchen."
"There."
"If we get her back."
Max tightened the siphon on the bottle. "We should. Come on."
"Mr. LJ's in conference, sweetie," said the voice at the end of the pool.
"Tell him to get his ass down here," said Ken.
"So is this how you talk to somebody who has solved your problems?" LJ swam to them and pulled himself up on the rock. "Who's the creep with you?"
Max squatted and said, "What did you do with Joan McNamara?"
"Leave your card with my secretary, chum. You I don't even know."
"The bottle," said Max.
Ken brought it out from behind his back. "Ready."
"Bribes won't help you," said LJ. "Anyway I fixed up your problem swell for you, honey. This clown, Val Willsey, will never get his hands on your little lady now. Believe you me."
"Tell us what you did with them," said Max. "Or we'll use some of this anti-elemental spray on you."
"So who's an elemental?" LJ laughed. "Why are you boys so stewed up? I fixed things good. That's what you wanted."
"You didn't fix things good at all," said Ken. "You made the same stupid mistakes I did about Joan. It was Max here who ..."
"Max, that's a nice name," said LJ. "If he noses around too much in my affairs I'll fix him, too. Him I'll cast as Cupid with a dolphin if he don't watch it."
"We don't want to hurt you," said Max.
"So how could you?" LJ put his hands behind his scaly blue back and paced. Then he closed one eye and turned. Pointing at Max he said, "You I'll fix right now."
Ken sprayed the fluid at LJ. "Damn you."
"How typical," said LJ, toppling over. He fell and lay still with his legs up stiff in the air.
"It works," said Ken.
"Works great." Max watched LJ.
LJ popped and disintegrated into blue dust. "I had to use the stuff to save you, Max. It worked too good."
Max stood up, watching the spot where LJ had been. "In all the props and stuff that're stored here is there much statuary?"
"Sure," said Ken. "In the big warehouse back of here. All sorts of birdbaths and fountains and lawn statues. Greek stuff and so on." He put the bottle down. "Hey. And that's where a lot of my dad's old files and clippings and letters are stored."
"Could LJ get in there?"
"The pipes from here ran back to the warehouse," said Ken. "That's probably where he picked up his Hollywood material."
"Let's take a look," said Max. "He threatened to turn me into a decorative piece for a fountain. Maybe he did the same with Joan."
Ken found her. "Hey, Max. Over here."
Joan and Val Willsey were on a pedestal, turned to stone. "Very funny," said Max.
"This used to be a satyr chasing a nymph."
"And never getting his hands on her," said Max. "LJ was a whimsical guy." Max looked at the rows of stone figures.
"It just occurred to me," said Ken. "I was so happy finding Joan I forgot. LJ's destroyed and Joan is turned to stone. How do we break this spell?"
Max walked once around the two figures and then leaned back against a stone Venus. "Try kissing her. That works sometimes."
"What about Val."
"Try Joan first."
Ken pulled a stool over and reached up. He leaned out and kissed the statue Joan. "Once enough?" he asked.
"Once enough for what?" said Joan, stepping down off the pedestal. "Ken, what's happened?" She glanced at the stone Val Willsey. "Is that Val?"
Ken hesitated. "Kiss him."
"The statue?"
"Go ahead."
Joan did. It brought Val back. "What an odd thing to have happen over breakfast," he said. "Excuse me. Mother's probably having eight kinds of fit." He nodded at them and hurried away.
"I guess I misunderstood you," said Ken.
"Me, too, with you," said Joan.
Ken looked at Max. "I bet lots of people would be interested in that spray we made to use on LJ. There are probably other elementals around."
"LJ?" Joan asked.
"Tell you back at the house," Ken said, taking her hand. "Coming, Max?"
"In a minute. You go ahead."
"Thanks, Max," said Joan as she and Ken walked out of the warehouse.
Max lit a cigarette. He watched the stone Venus over his shoulder. Not a bad-looking girl.
When he finished the cigarette Max walked down the row of statues and out into the daylight.
MAX KEARNY SHOOK HIS HEAD. "I'm giving up occult detective work." He turned and started across Union Square.
Three pigeons drifted by, borne on the harsh April wind. Walter Terrace waited until the birds passed and then caught up with Max. "But this is genuine black magic." He was a tall young man in his late twenties, crewcut and with faintly cherubic cheeks. "With a girl in distress, Max."
"No," said Max, heading for the sunken garage. "It's only a hobby, a sideline, with me anyway. I'm settling down, Walt."
Terrace stood in line with Max at the cashier's window. "Black magic, Max. Really. Invisibility. Not to mention the lousy wage structure and lack of fringe benefits."
In the elevator dropping to level 3 Max said, "Walt, I'm getting married a week from Saturday."
"I know that," said Terrace. "Ann has already picked out the gift, Max. You can't stand by and let a girl who's giving you and your bride a set of stainless steel cutlery be plagued by human fiends. Damn, see how unsettled I am? Spoiling the surprise."
The elevator whooshed open and Max began wandering among the silent cars. "I can't. Jillian is a nice sedate girl. She even went to college in Connecticut for a year, Walt. No, no more ghost breaking. It's a time for settling down. You'll find out when you and Ann finally get married."
"How can you settle down when your wife is subject to spells of invisibility?"
They found Max's car. "I have to pick Jillian up at her apartment," Max said. "We're driving across to Sausalito to talk to this reverend she found."
"That's a picturesque church over there," said Terrace. "I'd like to get married in it, so would Ann. Still, you can't walk down the aisle with an invisible girl. And people'd balk at catching a bouquet tossed out of nowhere."
Max hesitated, got out his keys, slid in behind the wheel. "I can give you a lift out to your place, it's on the way. Tell me while we drive. Maybe I can suggest something."
"Great," said Terrace, hopping in.
As they wound the shadowy tunnels toward daylight Max said, "You've never mentioned this before."
"It's only been a month."
"That's a long time to be invisible." Max headed the car up Post Street.
"She's not invisible all the time," said Terrace. His fingers drummed on the arm rest. "Only when she goes to look for a job."
Max frowned. "That sounds psychosomatic."
"No, it's her boss."
A seagull flapped down and danced briefly on Max's hood ornament. Max honked the horn and the bird rose away. "Her boss? I thought Ann worked at some ad agency. Like all of us."
"Sort of," said Terrace. He got a clay pipe carefully out of his inside coat pocket and filled it from a red leather pouch. "Gift from Ann," he explained, lighting up. "Until recently she's always been evasive about exactly where she worked."
"Isn't it an agency? I thought she was a secretary."
"Ever hear," said Terrace, exhaling smoke, "of . . . well, of the phantom agency?"
"What?"
"The phantom agency. I'd heard vague rumors, never believed in it. That's who Ann works for."
Max made a right turn. "I've never heard of them. Tell me."
"The real name is," said Terrace, "Calder and Peppercorn. They have offices, I think, over in North Beach. Underground actually. Under an old antique shop, Ann says."
"What are they, industrial spies?"
"Wizards and warlocks," said Terrace.
"Oh, so?"
"Yeah, they handle all kinds of arcane accounts. Like the biggest wolfbane supplier in the world, a mammoth love potion outfit, one large alchemy equipment house. They do advertising for a whole batch of occult clients, in you wouldn't believe what out of the way media."
"Funny I've never run into them."
"They're sly."
"How'd Ann get involved?"
"Answered an ad. Even warlocks need good typists. She's 90 words a minute."
"Okay," said Max. "Now about the invisibility."
"They don't," said his friend, "want her to leave. But she wants to get out. Whenever they get wind she's going out on an interview for a new job they hex her. She gets to the office building she's going to okay but somewhere, usually in the elevator—she scared one operator into freezing between floors for 45 minutes—she just vanishes. She's getting used to it but it's upsetting. And see, Max, how can we plan a marriage with this hanging over us. That was my apartment two blocks back."
"Oh, yeah, sorry." Max U-turned. "Look, Walt, I did sort of promise Jillian—not that she asked but I wanted to—to cut out the occult screwing around. Hell, I like Ann."
"Couldn't you take on one last case?"
Max, braking the car, said, "Okay. I'll talk to some people and check around. Try to fix things up. I'll call you in a couple of days."
"She has a job interview on Friday," said Terrace. He got out of the car.
"Could be gone by Friday. Let's hope so," said Max.
He was fifteen minutes late getting to his fiancée's place.
The little church in Sausalito, over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, was one story ranch style as well as Gothic. It was glass and redwood, encrusted with carved gargoyles and stunted spires. The Reverend Allan was standing in front of it. A thin middle-aged man in dark slacks, a tweed coat and buff sneakers. "Tell me once more who you are," he said.
"Max Kearny and Jillian Shender," said Max.
"We're getting married here a week from Saturday at 3:30," Jillian said. She was a small and slender girl, auburn haired and blue eyed.
"Saturday next? Why didn't I remember that?" Allan thought and small crescents formed under his round eyes. "You're the furniture man and his acrobat, right?"
"No," said Jillian. Her voice had a faint Eastern, faint British touch. "We're the advertising man and his food consultant."
"Certainly, I know." He nodded. "Lots of romance in the ad game. Mad Avenue."
"Monty Street," said Max.
Allan chuckled. "I get a great many ideas on how to sell things. In my work it's selling, too."
"We met through advertising," Jillian told him.
"Yeah," said Max. "I'm an art director and one day Jillian came in to our agency to be consulted. She was there to tell us how to photograph a stuffed turkey and we fell in love."
"Now see," said Reverend Allan, "I wouldn't know the first thing about photographing a turkey." He cocked his head. "Little bells."
Far off in the twilight a tiny doorbell seemed to be ringing.
"It's my boys, Randolph and Phil. They have a little intercom between my study and the house. I'll trot over and see what they want. You young people go into my study. Inside and to your left. I won't be a moment." He trotted off.
Max took Jillian's hand. "Why'd we tell him so much about ourselves?"
"I'm nervous."
"Oh?"
"About the wedding, sure," Jillian said. "But what you told me about Walt and Ann."
They went under the gargoyle-bordered doorway and turned left. Allan's study was locked and they sat on a claw-footed bench. "Don't let it worry you."
"Max," said Jillian. She took her hand away and spread both flat on her lap. "I think I should tell you."
"Tell me?"
"I should have when you told me about your occult detective work," the girl said. "You really don't have to give that up. This case, though. Please don't go near Calder and Peppercorn."
"You've heard of them then?"
Jillian, head lowered, said, "I used to work there."
"What? When?"
"Only for a few months," said Jillian. "Max, all right, I'll tell you it all. We are almost man and wife. Two of my aunts were out and out witches in upstate Vermont. I have a small knack for magic myself and when I needed money when I first got to San Francisco somebody put me on to them. I'm not only a food consultant. I worked a few simple spells for Knox Peppercorn."
Max swallowed. Then he smiled. "It's good you're a little magic. It gives us even more in common."
"I'm sorry. Earlier is when I should have spoken up."
"Maybe. You've said it now." Max lit a cigarette. "So could you give me an angle on Peppercorn?"
"Max." Jillian gripped his arm. "He's a wizard. Really. Don't go near him. He'll hurt you."
"Come on," said Max. "I've run into wizards and warlocks before, Jillian. I'm not incompetent."
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied."
"No, Max."
"And now that I think of it, who was the guy who told you to see Peppercorn in the first place. You never mentioned him before either."
"Don't yell, Max."
"I'm not jealous, merely curious."
"Would either of you like a peanut butter sandwich?" asked Reverend Allan. "My boys, Randolph and Phil, made up some extras." He showed them a deck of sandwiches.
Max said no. As did Jillian.
W. R. Pedway ran a book shop near Max's apartment. It was the small gray-haired Pedway who'd gotten Max interested in occult detection originally. The next day after work Max dropped in to consult him about Walter Terrace's problem.
"How's Jillian?" asked Pedway from up on a ladder.
"She said she couldn't see me tonight," said Max. "Some personal thing that's a surprise. Maybe she's mad."
"There are very few married ghost detectives," said Pedway. He finished stacking a matched set of Balzac and climbed down.
"I'm giving that up anyway. This is my last case."
Pedway closed one eye. "What is?"
Max told him about Calder and Peppercorn, outlined the problems Ann Upland, Walt Terrace's girlfriend, was having. "I've never heard of those guys before," Max concluded.
"I have," said Pedway. "Didn't consider them important enough to mention."
"Apparently," said Max, taking one of the wicker chairs between the book bins, "Jillian used to work for them. I asked her to tell me how she broke loose but we got into a debate and she didn't."
Pedway eased a hand under the stomach of his orange cat, who was asleep on a bound volume of St. Nicholas Magazine, and got his corncob pipe. "That's a whole new facet of Jillian's. Congratulations."
Max gave him some background on the facet. "Stop grinning," he said, finishing.
"Two witches in the family. At least. I knew you couldn't turn your back on the occult." He ignited a wood match with his thumbnail.
"What do you know about Calder and Peppercorn?"
"Calder's a nonentity," said Pedway, puffing at the corncob. "Used to be a muscle reader in a carnival in the 30s, probably even a geek for a time. Then he did escape stuff in a magic show that toured mostly in Nebraska but that ended when he couldn't get out of a milkcan one day in Omaha. He has no real powers at all, though he's a nice crook."
"And Knox Peppercorn?"
"A real wizard. Born in Vienna in 1746 and ..."
"How do you know that?"
"It's on his job resume," said the bookdealer. "I have a swiped copy someplace. He's worked at transmutation, mesmerism, black magic. For awhile he drove a gondola in Venice."
Max leaned back against a row of James Oliver Curwood and asked, "How about a way to get Ann Upland out of there? I know some good anti-invisibility things but this isn't as simple as that."
"A drug company in Bavaria has an aerosol can for it now," said Pedway. "One swish and anybody turns visible. Salesman left me a sample can. Also some wolfbane made from soybeans. Looks and smells like the real stuff. Only hitch so far is the werewolves don't believe in it. Thing to do for Peppercorn is deactivate him, unmagic him. Or threaten to."
"I'd feel bad threatening an old man."
"He only looks fifty," said Pedway. He grunted and reached under the counter. "Got this a few days ago." He held up a yellow-covered paperback. "This is put out by a firm, in Bavaria, too. New paperback, in English, on thwarting wizards and warlocks."
Max read the title. "That says The Art Of French Pastry."
"To fool customs," said Pedway. "Trust me. These are good spells for disarming black magicians. Fine simple diagrams, too, in cartoon style. Lots of the old books have those rotten woodcuts with everyone out of proportion."
Max said, "Okay," taking the book. "What would you suggest for Peppercorn?"
"Oh," said Pedway. "Try page 34 and page 86 to start."
"This better not be a cook book."
It wasn't.
The next day, an hour before quitting time, the city was tangled in fog. Max was running down the stone steps that led to Jillian's street. He hadn't heard from her since yesterday, hadn't been able to reach her on the phone.
At three she was to have been at a test kitchen over on Howard Street to supervise the filming of a coleslaw commercial. Max had phoned over there three times. Jillian hadn't showed.
The wrought-iron gate in front of her Victorian apartment house stuck and Max climbed over, landing flatfooted on the small lawn.
"Why it's Mr. Kearny," said a slow weary voice, "isn't it?"
"It is," said Max, spotting Jillian's landlady standing next to the sundial and peering from behind a cluster of green bamboo. "Would you know if Jillian is home, Mrs. Shuttlecock?"
"Well," said the heavy old woman, touching at the fur collar of her blue cloth coat. Behind her the three story, narrow house made a creaking sound and a piece of gingerbread fell free. "There's been a lot of that lately. I'm afraid the house is nowhere as ornate as it was in Mr. Shuttlecock's day. To refurbish it at this time, though, would be too dear."
Max shifted on his feet. "Jillian?"
"And the faucets in Mr. Flanneroy's closet make a plug-plug-plug noise at night. You realize this was once a home for just one big eccentric pre-quake family and so ..."
"Mrs. Shuttlecock, I'm sort of worried about Jillian," interrupted Max. "I'll go on up and see if she's home."
"She's not."
"Oh?"
"She," said the landlady, picking up a plastic bucket from the sundial top, "hasn't been home since last night, Mr. Kearny. I don't usually pry but when Mrs. Veblen's fireplace exploded late last evening I did have to knock on Jillian's door. The note."
Max was half way up the front stairs. "She left a note for me?" My god, he thought, Jillian's backed out. No, that's not a rational notion. Relax.
"On my little catchall table," said Mrs. Shuttlecock.
Max dived into the hallway and sifted through the sprawl of mail. He spotted his name in Jillian's large cockeyed printing. She doesn't even know caps from lower case, Max thought. And then, but why isn't she here?
The letter said: "Wednesday aft. Max, in case you drop by tonight I might as well admit I'm doing something not too feminine and retiring. Don't be angry. I'm going over to Calder & Peppercorn and tell Knox to leave Ann alone. I don't want you, really Max, to get mixed up with him. I'll see you Thursday around 5 as per usual. Love, Jillian."
Dodging around Mrs. Shuttlecock on the path Max sent her yellow bucket spinning into the mist. "Sorry," he said, leaping the black gate and making for his car.
In the North Beach antique store a basilisk tried to stop him but Max always carried a charm against them on his key ring. The shop proprietor had jumped Max when he demanded to be let through the secret entrance to the Calder & Peppercorn offices. The fringe-haired old man weighed 200 pounds and he knocked Max's wind out falling on him. In a second Max knocked him out and jerked free.
He guessed the entrance to the phantom agency would be behind the black bead portiered archway just in back of the basilisk's pedestal. He jumped through and ran down a dark corridor. The corridor corkscrewed down and around and at its dim end was a large ebony desk with a bare-chested man behind it. The guy was broad and bald, with gold rings in his ears and a spiky circular beard. There was a glossy raven perched on his in-box. "Do you have an appointment?"
Max yanked the magic paperback out of his inside coat pocket and read off a few entry spells. For some reason the giant receptionist turned to stone. Max shrugged, dodged the now angry raven, and hit a door marked Private. He spun, found the release button under the desk edge.
This corridor looked like any other advertising agency. Gray carpets, gray walls. Offices and cubbyholes with half-glass doors. One of the art directors wore a peaked blue cap glazed with stars and planets. Aside from that Calder & Peppercorn could have been Max's agency.
He found Ann Upland at a desk on the second level down. "Max?" said the blonde, her hands dropping away from her typewriter keys. "How'd you get in here?"
"I turned your receptionist to stone. Have you seen Jillian?"
"No," said Ann, shaking her head. "She's not here now, is she?"
"Since yesterday," said Max, explaining about it.
Ann thumbed the space bar twice. "Peppercorn and Calder and Mr. Balamar and Don Artemus have been in conference all day, with smoke coming out from under the door. Could Jillian be in there?"
"She is a food consultant," said Max. "Which conference room are they in?"
"Down on the next level. It says Private Eyrie on the door." She paused. "Do you think you can help us, Max?"
"Yes," said Max, running.
The conference room was unlocked but a two-headed snake lay across the door. Max countered it with a spell from a page one footnote.
The four men in the room looked grim. Jillian, sitting on the left of the conference table with a big smoking cauldron in front of her, looked sleepless. Max smiled. "You okay, Jillian?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry, Max. I thought I knew all Peppercorn's tricks. He's got some new spells from Bavaria. I'm under one now to stay here and whip them up an assortment of magic potions. They're making some pitches for new accounts and want all the help they can get."
"A potion," said a small square-faced man at the head of the table, "needs the woman's touch, Kearny. We are all glad to have Jillian back. Perhaps," he grinned, "she won't leave."
A plump man in his sixties, very manicured and lotioned-looking, flicked a thick cigar and said, in a burred vaguely Southern voice, "I think we ought not to stand in the way of love, Knox."
"Love, Wilkie," replied the square-jawed little man, "we can make with a philtre."
Wilkie Calder sucked his cigar, pouted. "I think it should be put to a vote."
"I'm the major stock holder," said Peppercorn.
A Latin-looking man with a five-year-old sport coat, gap-toothed and moustached, said, "The real problem is this fellow Kearny here who's barged in on our private cabal." This must be Balamar.
Meaning the lanky man with round eyeglasses was Don Artemus. He said, "I'm tired of nobody ever listening to me."
"You haven't said anything," pointed out Peppercorn.
"It's the theory behind your attitude," said Artemus, "which annoys me so."
"Okay," said Max. "I'm taking Jillian home. Right now."
"A toad," suggested Balamar. "I vote we turn Kearny into a toad."
"That's typical of your thought patterns," said Artemus. "Instead of preconcepting you just barge in with triteness. We don't even have a consumer posture on this Conroy boy."
Max said, "Max Kearny. And I want my fiancée back."
"I like that toad idea," said Calder, apparently shifting sides. "But I'd buy a frog better."
"Frogs are toads," said Balamar, touching his moustache.
"No they're not," said Artemus. "Besides which, we used the frog thing on that space rep from the tarot company last week."
"I'm certain," said Peppercorn, "Kearny here could repel the more obvious spells. What I'd like to hear now is some fresh thinking on how to really hex this upstart."
"You're such a bastard," put in Jillian, flaking some dry leaves into the cauldron on the table before her. "Don't think I'm not interested, Max, but this damn spell compels me to keep at this witch's brew."
Max turned his back for a moment and carefully checked the Bavarian spell book. His fingers were thick feeling. He finally found what seemed a good counter spell. He slipped the book away and faced Jillian, incanting.
Jillian smiled, said "Hey!", pushed back from the conference table and then toppled the cauldron. The brew hissed and swirled across the table top, making an ugly gray-green falls as it cascaded into Don Artemus's lap.
Artemus yelled and jumped back. "Typical outcome of our lack of direct action."
"Let's use the frog spell quickly," said Balamar.
"I've been wondering," said Calder, "if frogs aren't too trite. I was about to suggest a wolf. It's traditional I grant but effective."
Artemus was hopping up and down. "Oh for pete's sake. What could be hokier than a wolf. Not to mention the fact that a wolf could attack us."
"Not if you're carrying our client's wolfbane with you as I notified you all to do in my last memo on the subject," said Calder.
Smiling, Peppercorn stood at the table head and carefully began to roll up his left sleeve. His cufflinks were silver coins and slow to detach.
"Max, look out," said Jillian. "He's about to strike."
Max grabbed out the spell book and turned to the index. He looked under long life but the first reference was to a plug for a Bavarian senior city.
Peppercorn's cufflink clattered onto the table top. His sleeve inched up. "Enough of Kearny," he said.
Max had found what he wanted. He made three signs in the air. Muttered Latin backwards. Said five phrases of old French.
Nothing happened. Peppercorn laughed.
"Max," cried Jillian, "you mispronounced the last line."
"Ooops," said Max, shouting it again.
"It won't . . ." said Peppercorn. Then he was gone. His clothes collapsed onto his chair and a geyser of fine dust spouted up and drifted into nothing in the air conditioned room.
"Good gravy," said Artemus. "You made him old."
"He made me mad," said Max. "Come on, Jillian."
"See?" asked Balamar. "We should have done the frog spell right off."
"I suggested simply letting them go," said Calder, eyeing Max.
Jillian took Max's hand and they left the conference room.
On the next level they collected Ann Upland. Ann's invisibility spells did not recur. She got a new job within three days. And in just over a week Max and Jillian were married by Reverend Allan, who thought they were both acrobats.
GRETCHEN GOODWIN STEPPED into the kitchen area, then stepped out and screamed tentatively.
Pete Goodwin came running from the den corner of the recreation area. "What is it?"
"There's," said his wife, nodding at the sink, "a seagull sitting on the chafing dish."
Pete still had their checkbook in his hand. He slipped it into his hip pocket as he approached the sink. "Yeah, that's a seagull all right." Masking the gesture with his body Pete made a get-out-of-here motion with his thumb. He stepped closer to the dingy brown bird and winked. "I'll try and shoo him away, honey."
"Be careful," said Gretchen. She was a big blonde girl, pale now and standing on tip toe. "Maybe I could call an exterminator."
"It's against the law to exterminate a seagull," Pete said "Cut it out," he whispered to the bird.
"Maybe Mr. Hazzard with Dillman/Eclectic Homes could help," suggested Gretchen. "We have had all kinds of problems since we moved into San Xavier Acres."
Pete reached out and tried to open the window above the sink. "I can cope with a seagull." He couldn't get the window to open.
"All the windows stick," said Gretchen. "I told Mr. Hazzard about it twice."
Pete got the seagull by the feet and carried it to the front door of the house. The bird said, "Awk," once but didn't otherwise object.
"Won't you make him dizzy carrying him upside down like that?" asked Gretchen.
Her husband tossed the bird out toward their lawn, "Whose side are you on?"
"It's just that it's ten miles from the bay and he'll need a clear head to fly home."
Pete closed the door. "I'll get back to paying the bills. Okay?"
"Pete," said Gretchen. "There is something wrong with this house. Why don't you admit it?"
"All new houses have a few kinks in them."
"We've been here two weeks. And we've had seagulls in the sink and a bobcat in the shower stall and white mice in the conversation pit and whatever those black furry things were under the bed that night," said Gretchen. "Not to mention the windows that stick and the doors that don't open and the legs that fall off sofas and the canisters and apothecary jars that jump off shelves, Pete."
"It's better than the apartment we had in San Francisco, isn't it?"
"No," said his wife. "I think it's haunted."
Pete grunted. "San Xavier Acres is only two months old. Before the houses were here this was just empty fields. How could it have ghosts?"
"Well, poltergeists then."
Pete said, "I've got to figure how we can settle with Macy's, Magnin's and Robert Kirk this month."
"I won't bother you. I'll get to work on my children's book."
"Which one is this?"
"Kevin The Conveyor Belt," said Gretchen.
"Good," said Pete. He fished out the checkbook and headed back for the den corner.
"Pete," said Gretchen.
"Um?"
"Listen."
"To what?"
"Hear that dripping?"
"No."
"Well, listen." She started for the bedroom. "In the closet," she said, pointing.
Pete opened the door. Something was dripping into his tennis shoes. "What the hell."
"It's not raining and there aren't any pipes in here."
Pete got on his hands and knees and took a sample of the dripping liquid on his forefinger. He sniffed, then tasted. "Maple syrup." He looked up into the closet. "Seems to be coming from under my sports car cap." He flicked up the hat and the dripping stopped. There was nothing on the shelf beneath the cap. "Huh," he said.
"Poltergeists," said Gretchen.
Pete didn't answer her.
Max Kearny hurried through the fog and up the steps of the gray Victorian apartment building. There was no mail on the eagle-footed table in the hallway, which probably meant his wife was home ahead of him.
He let himself into the ground floor apartment and said, "Jillian?"
"In the kitchen," called his wife.
Jillian, a slim, auburn-haired girl, was bent over a card table. On the table were a dozen sandwiches.
"Job?" asked Max. Jillian was a food consultant to ad agencies.
"Yes," she said, "Do any of these look appetizing?"
Max studied the sandwiches. "No. What's in them?"
"Watercress. We've got to get an appetizing shot of a watercress sandwich."
"Who's the client?"
"Watercress Advisory Board."
"That one with the green olive on top isn't so bad looking," said Max. He kissed Jillian and then sat on a yellow stool.
"Max?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever get the urge to take up your old hobby again?"
"Occult detective work?" Max shrugged. "Not too much." He narrowed one eye and watched Jillian. "Why?"
"I've got a case for you if you want to take it."
Max said, "You've got a knack for working a little magic yourself. Is this something you've gotten messed up in?"
"Nope," said Jillian, stepping back from the table. "It's the Goodwins."
"Pete and Gretchen?"
"Yes."
"Pete and Gretchen are mixed up in something occult?" asked Max. "Gee, I can see Pete as just going on as a copywriter with Jarndyce & Jarndyce and Gretchen writing Gordon The Garbage Truck and so on. But I don't see them as possible clients for a ghost detective."
Jillian said, "They've got poltergeists."
Max frowned. "At that new tract house of theirs?"
"Yes," said Jillian and told him what had been happening to the Goodwins.
"That doesn't sound like poltergeists quite."
"Do you think you could investigate?"
"I suppose," said Max. "Is that what Pete and Gretchen want?"
"Gretchen asked me," said Jillian. "I don't think Pete wants anybody to look into it. Which is kind of odd. Anyway, we're invited for dinner Thursday night. Want to?"
Max hesitated. Then said, "Okay."
Pete Goodwin scratched at his short blond hair and said, "Gretchen exaggerates, Max. We're still on our shakedown cruise with this house and little things are going to show up."
Max watched the sherry in his glass. "Of course, Jillian and I are apartment types so far. But maple syrup in the closets and bobcats in the shower. That stuff sounds unusual, Pete."
"Life is different in the suburbs, Max."
A soaking wet man stepped out of the bathroom. He was small and his thick dark hair was running onto his ears and forehead.
Gretchen yelped. "Mr. Hazzard."
"I was," said Hazzard, shaking himself, "standing on your front stoop. I rang the chimes and somehow found myself in the shower stall."
"These new houses," said Jillian, tapping Max's knee.
"I don't want to intrude on your cocktail hour," said Hazzard. His suit gave off a smoky smell.
Pete had stepped over into the kitchen area. He caught an orange towel and flipped it to Hazzard. "Mr. Hazzard," he explained, "sold us this house. He's with Dillman/Eclec-tic, builders of San Xavier Acres."
"The shower was on when I found myself in it," said Hazzard, toweling his head.
"We have trouble getting enough hot water," Gretchen said.
"I didn't notice." Hazzard blotted his face and patted his shirt front with the towel. "I had a reason for popping over, folks. I'm a little worried about Lot 26."
"That's us," Gretchen told Max and Jillian.
"None of our other modern living homes," said Hazzard, "seem to be having the trouble you people are."
"It's okay," said Pete. "Don't fret about it, Mr. Hazzard. New houses can be quirky."
"Dillman/Eclectic has built nineteen developments since 1953. All of our homes are notably quirk free." Hazzard combed his hair and then shrugged several times in his wet suit.
"We're happy here," said Pete.
"Some of the other folks," said Hazzard, "particularly Lots 22 and 23, have the notion, and I don't want a panic to start, that you people are haunted."
"People gossip a lot in the suburbs," said Pete. He took Hazzard's arm and guided him toward the door.
"If it spreads," said Hazzard.
"You get into some warm clothes. I'll drop over to your office after work tomorrow and talk to you." Pete helped Hazzard out into the night.
"Pete," his wife said.
"Guys in the sales end of things are all twitchy."
"But Pete," said Gretchen, "he got teleported from the front door into the bath."
"We can go into our personal problems when we don't have guests," said Pete. He came back into the conversation sector and picked up a wedge of feta cheese.
"Max," said Gretchen. "What do you think?"
Max looked across at Pete. "Teleportation isn't a feature of the average house."
Pete said, "Drop it, Max."
"It's a ghost, isn't it?" Gretchen asked.
Max drank some of his wine. "If it is, it's Pete's ghost. And he doesn't seem to want to talk about it." Max set down his glass and glanced at the spot where Hazzard had been standing. He rose and went over.
Next to a pair of damp footprints was a scattering of dirt. The dirt was dry and as Max touched it it glittered faintly gold.
Back on the sofa next to Jillian Max said, "When's your next kids' book coming out, Gretchen?"
"Randall The Rotary Press? In September." The blonde girl jerked to her feet. "I'll go look after dinner."
Jillian put her hand on Max's knee and squeezed slightly.
Jillian was sitting cross legged on the end of their bed. Her hair was down, touching her shoulders. "But why a gnome?" she said.
Max untied his shoes. "Because I get the feeling it's some kind of elemental. Those clumps of dirt. I think the gnome has them clinging to him. Those little guys live underground, you know. And they can change shape usually."
"This gnome was the seagull and the bobcat?"
"Probably," said Max, wandering around the bedroom barefooted. "They're given to pranks. They can also turn invisible if they want to. Which would explain the other tricks. At least some of them."
"But why doesn't Pete admit that something's wrong?"
"Well," said Max, "maybe because he's met the gnome. Their house, Lot 26, is probably over an underground cave or something."
"You mean the gnome might have a treasure hidden there?" asked Jillian. "That's what gnomes do, isn't it?"
Max nodded. "It could be Pete's interested in the treasure."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Sure," said Max. "Never trust a gnome."
"Are you going to investigate?"
"No," said Max. "I don't want to get into a frumus with Pete over this. He was pretty nasty about it tonight."
"There's Gretchen to think about."
Max sat on the bed. "She's not a very good cook, is she?"
"With a gnome in the house, who would be. But, Max, you will help them?"
Max said, "If Pete asks me to. Otherwise, no."
Jillian bit her lip.
Pete Goodwin rolled silently out of bed, listening carefully to the sleeping Gretchen. He skulked across the thin carpet and ducked into the hall.
He moved quietly through the dark, still house and edged through the door to the garage. Kneeling in front of the Volkswagen he pushed aside cardboard cartons.
Beneath a packing case of issues of The New Yorker was a hole, some three feet in diameter. The hole glowed faintly blue.
"Blum," said Pete. "Hey, Blum."
The hole went quite deep and Pete's voice echoed.
"Ready to compromise?" said a burred voice.
"We're not going to move," said Pete. "But look, Blum, I've got friends with a lot of occult knowledge. If you don't turn over some of the treasure I'll have something drastic done to you."
A chubby man, some two feet high, rose up out of the hole. He wore a conservative suit and a checkered hat. "Peter, I've told you. I only work here. The treasure belongs to the higher ups. The really influential gnomes. I'm just here to watch it."
"They wouldn't miss a little gold," said Pete.
"I'm in enough trouble already," said the gnome. "I tried to scare the builders away and that didn't work. I've been deviling you and your bride and that isn't working."
"Sooner or later I'm going to outwit you and you'll have to turn the treasure over to me."
Blum shuddered. "I wish you'd never stumbled onto my lair."
"I have a nose for this kind of stuff," said Pete.
"Suppose I gave you one gold nugget. Would you vacate then?"
"One nugget? That won't even settle what we owe Macy's."
"Two is as high as I could go," said Blum. "Once I gave a shepherd three nuggets for taking a thorn out of my foot and I caught some awful trouble from the higher ups."
"Let me cross the barrier," said Pete. "And just look at the gold anyway."
The gnome caught his hat by its brim and shook his head. "No, no. I can get in dutch merely for talking to you. Come on, Peter. I've put centuries into being a gnome. It's the only thing I know. Don't blow it for me."
"But all that gold," said Pete. "Right here, under foot."
"I'm warning you, Peter. All the stops are going to get pulled out," said Blum, jabbing with his thumb. "Whoops," he cried and dived back into the hole.
Pete reached out to catch him but his hand was stopped at floor level by an invisible shield. Then Pete thought to look behind him and see what had caused the gnome to bolt.
He turned and saw a flash of polka dot nightgown retreating. He held his breath while he moved the boxes back over the hole.
Max Kearny swung his car into the driveway of the Goodwin house. He jumped out and ran across the mist-damp lawn and toward the front door. As he rang the bell Pete came around the house from the garage.
"Is Jillian here?" Max said.
"Isn't Gretchen over visiting her?"
"No, damn it," said Max. "What are you and your gnome up to?"
Pete widened his eyes. "Gnome?"
Max jumped off the welcome mat and down to the cobblestones next to Pete. He grabbed his arm. "Gretchen saw you last night, you nitwit. She called Jillian and asked for help."
"She did?"
"Look," said Max. He jerked a note out of his coat pocket.
"I didn't know Jillian printed like that," said Pete, studying the note.
"Read the thing."
" 'Since you won't help Gretchen I really think I have to tackle that gnome myself,' " read Pete. " 'Pete is completely ensnared by the thing.' That's a subjective judgment. 'Gretchen saw him pleading with it in their garage last night. I think I can work a spell or two on the thing and get rid of it.' "
"Now where's Jillian?"
"I hope she's not botching up that gnome, Max. We're friends and all, but I need that gold."
"I wasn't going to do a damn thine for or against you. But now my wife's involved." He pulled Pete toward the garage.
"Could you really work something on Blum," said Pete. "That's the gnome, Blum. We could split the treasure, fifty-fifty."
"I'm afraid he's worked something on Jillian and Gretchen."
"They weren't around the house anywhere when I got home from work." Pete stopped next to the boxes that had been over the gnome hole. They were pushed aside and the hole glowed in the dim garage. "I was just coming in to check here when you drove up. I guess they have been prying."
Max knelt next to the hole. Face down at its edge was one of the occult volumes from his library. Elementals & How To Beat Them. "Jillian," Max called.
"You're not down there are you, Gretchen?" said Pete over Max's shoulder.
Finally a voice answered. "You guys. You guys. Have you really any idea what you're doing to me." Up from the hole came Blum.
"My wife," said Max, turning carefully to the index of the anti-gnome book.
"She's down here with Mrs. Goodwin," said Blum. "Here they stay, too. Until you squatters pack up."
Max ignored him and read briefly in the book. He turned to Pete and said, "I'm going down there. I want you to stay up here."
"No. I want to see the gold."
Max gritted his teeth and swung at Pete's jaw. "Oof," said Pete. "Hey, Max."
Max swung again. "Sorry." He managed to knock his friend down with two more blows.
Then he spun and muttered a quick spell.
Blum blanched. "Everybody's invading my privacy today." He retreated.
Max found nothing to block him.
Stone steps twisted in half circles down and around. Far under the garage was a long low cavern. Sitting in one corner, surrounded by a ring of magic fire, were a dusty Jillian and a grimy Gretchen. Near them were bricks-and-boards shelves on which were laid out several dozen bright gold nuggets. Shelves on all the other walls were empty.
"You're perceptive," said Blum. "You knew that in order to beat me you have to be uninterested in my gold."
"Right. Which is why I didn't want Pete along."
"And it doesn't tempt you?"
"Not at the moment. Are you okay, Jillian?" He moved nearer to his wife.
"Yes," said Jillian. "I'm sorry I botched things."
"Where's Pete?" said Gretchen.
"Asleep against the Volkswagen," said Max. "I want them both released."
"You've got to promise to go away," said Blum.
"Max," said Jillian. "On that little table over there."
Max dived for a portable card table. On it was a memo size sheet of paper. It said: "All gold must be away by midnight. Site to be vacated and gnome Blum to report for reassignment. While no direct charge is made, the authorities are not pleased with gnome Blum's handling of matters."
"I saw it while he was chasing us around," said Jillian.
"I'm making a last ditch try to salvage something," said Blum. "Maybe if you all go away the higher ups will let me stay."
"You can't ignore an official memo."
Blum grimaced, his hands working at his hat brim. "Things have been so trying lately. The tensions, the failures."
"I'll even help you pack," offered Max.
The little gnome sighed. "Very well. You can have your respective wives back."
Max said, "That doesn't look like very effective magic fire anyway."
"So I'm a second rate gnome," said Blum. He waved at the circle of fire around the girls and it went out.
Jillian and Gretchen stepped free. "Shall we go back up?" Jillian said.
"Right," said Max.
The girls left the cavern and Blum said, "Want one gold nugget?"
Max shook his head. "I haven't been interested in that sort of thing since the day I got married. Sorry."
Blum hunched his shoulders. "I spent a half a century under Pittsburgh once. I hope they don't send me back there."
Max stepped back from the gnome, turned and went up the stairs.
In the garage he put his arm around Jillian while Gretchen tried to explain to Pete why they didn't have any treasure.
THE PICKET SIGN ABANDONED in front of the clinic doorway read: LET'S GET BID OF FREELOADING AND BLACK MAGIC. When Max Kearny lifted it out of the way, an empty fortified wine bottle, shielded by a paper sack, somersaulted down the three brick steps of the clinic. Max rested the sign against the green stucco and reached for the door handle.
The door fanned suddenly open and a middle-aged man in a dark suit came bicycling out backwards. The man thumped into Max, and a tall square-jawed man in the uniform of the Northwest Mounted Police reached out for him. The man in the dark suit adjusted his rimless glasses. The mountie waited, then hit the man on the nose and heaved him down to the street. Dusting his hands together, the mountie went back inside.
Max jumped to the sidewalk and gripped the dark-suited man up to a standing position. The man adjusted his glasses and said, "Why don't you get a job?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Do a decent day's work," said the man, "and don't come begging for free handouts. Pay for getting ill like any decent sick American."
Max said, "I have a job. I'm an art director with an advertising agency in San Francisco and I'm driving through San Marco to check on some dog food billboards."
"Oh, one of those intellectuals," the man said. "I knew you had some reason for loitering around Dr. Levin's freeload clinic for bums."
"I wasn't loitering," said Max. "Dr. Levin is a friend of mine and I was just walking in when the mounted police threw you out."
"I haven't time to argue. Captain Pennington's in there and he needs me."
Max went up the steps again, beside the man. "Who's Captain Pennington?"
"We get used to such uninformed questions. It's because of the news blackout the so-called lords of the press have imposed on the Freeload Prevention Society. Too, too few know about the captain and our crusade."
"You're protesting Dr. Levin's starting this free clinic in the tenderloin here?"
"We protest any and all freeloading."
The door slapped open and a second dark-suited man, tall and red-headed, tumbled out backwards. A fat, rumpled man with gray hair held him by the collar and crotch. "Scoundrel, scalawag, hyena," said the rumpled old man. He jettisoned the redhead.
Max said to the freeload man, "Is that Captain Pennington who just went by?"
"Yes. If we had a better press, you'd have known him at once."
"Are you guys going to attack again?"
"No. We only went in because one of them grabbed our best placard."
"Off, off, you wrongos," ordered the rumpled man. "You lily-livered scamps." He squinted his left eye at Max. "You another three-suited viper?"
Max said, "Nope. Friend of Dr. Levin's. Is he around?"
"Max?" called a voice from the hallway. "Come on in. Quick."
The pale green corridor smelled of rubbing alcohol and sweet wine. "You have a varied staff, Hal," said Max.
Dr. Harold Levin was thin, with curly dark hair and tortoise-shell glasses. "Step into this disrobing room, Max. We can talk." He rubbed his chin, looked at the rumpled old man. "I told you not to hit any of them."
"I didn't come by my nickname by depending on pansy language."
"Never mind our nickname," said Dr. Levin. "Go away now. I don't need any help."
"That decayed bunch of goons will try again."
"All of you," said Levin. "I'm doing okay. I don't want a big frumus."
"Nobody can browbeat a friend of Roundhouse Widder," said the old man.
"Hey," said Max. "Joe 'Roundhouse' Widder was a senator from Indiana or someplace. Back in the 1910s and 1920s. He died before World War II."
"He's kidding, Max," said Levin.
"The hell I am," said Widder. "There's only one Roundhouse Widder and I'm it. Maybe a good punch in the snout will convince your dude friend."
"I believe you," said Max. "How come you have this ghost here, Hal?"
"In here where it's private, Max. See, my nurse is in the reception room over there, and she can hear most of what's said in my office. Roundhouse, you and the rest, go away now."
Widder made a mild raspberry sound and melted into nothingness.
"Was the clinic haunted when you moved in?" asked Max.
Dr. Levin opened a pale green door and flicked on a light switch. He went into the small room and sat on a white cabinet. "Max, I know your hobby is occult investigation. You're a ghost detective, okay. But I don't want any help."
Max leaned against the wall next to a scale. "It's only a hobby anyway. Up to you. Who are those others, the Freeload Prevention guys?"
"Did April send you over, Max?"
"No. I haven't talked to her since the last time you two were over to our flat."
Levin said. "Sorry. She lets all this upset her too much. Setting up this clinic, Max, getting the private funds and all. We've been under a lot of pressure. Pennington, the one with the red hair, he and a couple of other guys come around and picket. They picket anything that smacks of socialism to them. The San Marco police shoo them away, but Pennington is an ex-Navy man, and the cops don't lean too hard."
"Has Pennington tried anything physical?"
"Not so far," said Dr. Levin. "You know how California is these days, Max. Pennington is just another lunatic. They'll get tired once the clinic has been here awhile. What brings you to San Marco?"
"Had to take a look at some billboards, so I drove down from the city," said Max. "That mountie. He's a ghost, too, isn't he?"
"More or less," sadi Levin. "Hey, I think April was going to call Jillian and ask you folks over for dinner this week. Free?"
"I'll see what Jillian says. You in the same house?"
"Yankee Doodle Acres?" asked Max. "Oh, yeah, that's the new patriotic housing development."
Levin shrugged. "You know how California is these days. Pennington lives there, of course." Checking his watch he said, "I've got a backup on patients, Max. Maybe we'll see you and Jill on Friday." A white phone on a white table rang. "Just a second. Hello, Hal Levin here. Mom, I can't talk to you much now. Yes, they were picketing today. They don't hurt me any, Mom. When? Friday, Mom, we can't. April and I will probably have company. What? Max and Jillian Kearny. No, it's only a hobby; he's not a full-time ghost detective. He's an art director, Mom." Levin cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's my mother, Max." Back into the phone he said, "Mom, I can't take you to the wrestling matches Friday. What custom? Mom, I've been married two years and never since then have I taken you. One Friday in August last year? No, Mom. Mom, listen, I have to see some patients. They're fine. Okay, goodbye. Love." He hung up. "My mother, Max. Maybe we'll see you Friday night."
Max started for the door, snapped his fingers and stopped.
"Russ Knobler. That's who the mounted police guy was. He was in the movies in the '30s, killed himself about twenty years back. Russ Knobler, sure. We used to see him in Saturday matinees."
"Yes," said Dr. Levin, working Max toward the exit.
"Does he always appear as a mountie?"
"No," said Levin. "Sometimes he's a lumberjack."
The front door opened and closed, and Max was on the steps again.
The Levins' backyard covered nearly a quarter acre of thick grass and wild brush and scattered trees. Twilight was slowly spreading. April Levin stood with her back to the snnset and mixed Max a second gin and tonic. She was a tall, long-legged brunette with short-cropped hair. Max leaned forward in his weathered deck chair and said, "I don't want to intrude."
"He's being haunted, Max. As a ghost detective you can't stand by and watch that. It would be against your code."
"We don't have an oath like doctors, April."
"Hal's your friend."
"Ever since he was working for the agency medical plan," said Max. He glanced at Levin, who was showing Max's wife the Victorian sundial he was refurbishing for the yard. "How many ghosts are there?"
"I've only seen the whole bunch once," said April, sitting on a low wrought-iron bench. "They spend most of their time hanging around Hal's new free clinic. But they were here one time when that nitwit Pennington came by in a red-white-and-blue sound truck. Anyhow, there seem to be three of them."
"What does Hal say?"
"Nothing much."
"They're trying to help Hal," said Max. "Defend him against the Freeload Prevention boys."
"I guess," sighed April.
"One of the ghosts is an old senator, Joe Widder. The other one I saw down in the tenderloin was Russ Knobler, the movie hero. Know the third?"
"William Barbee Platt."
"Platt? He was the physical-culture philosopher. Got killed on his 90th birthday while skydiving." Max paused to taste his drink. "Why these three, I wonder."
"That's easy."
"Oh? Some connection with Hal?"
"They're the three favorite idols of Hal's mom," said April. She rose to start herself a fresh drink. "I've heard considerable about them in the last two years. They're three out of four of Mom Levin's heroes. The fourth of which is still alive."
Jillian and Levin returned to the round metal table that held the liquor and ice bucket. "We ought to have a sundial," said Max's auburn-haired wife.
"With our lease we couldn't keep one in the apartment."
"I had a chance," said Levin, sitting, "to buy a real buggy. The kind country doctors used to ride around in. I let it pass."
"You don't make house calls anyway," said Max.
"Things don't always have to be completely functional," said Jillian. "For instance, we could put a sundial in our living room, Max, and use it as a table."
"The gnomon would get in the way," said Levin. "That's the part that casts the shadow, Jill."
"We could just look at it."
From a distance, a voice announced, "There's no place in a free republic for freeloading. No place in a pragmatic society for black magic and witchcraft."
"Pennington?" asked Max, as he stood.
"It's actually Mr. Weehunt," said April. She moved to Levin's side and took his hand. "Pennington drives the truck and Weehunt talks."
"Damn," said Levin. "The cops told them to stop that."
"He's a veteran," said April,
"So am I," said Levin, "and I don't have a loudspeaker."
"Why," asked Jillian, "does he throw in the black magic stuff?"
"He thinks Hal has summoned up all the ghosts," said April.
"Did you?" Jillian asked the doctor.
"It's not a good idea to have your neighbors think you're a warlock," said Levin, not answering Jillian.
"Let's go talk to him," said Max.
April said, "Be careful, Max. They say he's a gun collector, too. Has a whole cache of them hidden at his home over in Yankee Doodle Acres."
"No need for you to fear none, ma'am," said Russ Knobler, stepping out of a cluster of shadowy trees. He was dressed as the deputy sheriff of Tombstone. "We'll settle this hombre."
"Go away," said Levin, angrily.
Around Knobler came a giant old man in a shaggy lion skin. "Sit yourself down, Harold, and take your ease," he said in a rumbling, rolling voice. "We'll settle those fellows."
"Where do you guys change clothes?" Max asked Knobler when the cowboy passed him.
"I can't rightly bring back no information from the other side of the veil," drawled Knobler.
Levin put the palms of his hands against the chests of Knobler and William Barbee Platt. "Go back on the other side of the veil quick. I can't keep explaining you to the police."
"Trust us, pard," said Knobler. He brushed Levin out of his path and ran around the side of the house, spurs tinkling, toward the street. Platt followed him, and Max followed them both.
Parked at the curb of the tree-lined street was a sound truck painted in patriotic colors and designs. Mr. Weehunt, who was the man Max had had thrown at him in front of the clinic, had stepped out of the truck and was standing over the amplifiers while standing on the sidewalk. "I was deathly sick for five longs months in 1964 with a slipped disc, and I paid for it all out of my savings. George Washington would have done the same thing. To say nothing of Warren G. Harding. Let's rid the community of freeloaders, and while we're at it, let's throw out the wizards and witches and softies and people who don't take baths often enough."
A police car slowed and parked quietly nose-to-nose with the Pennington truck. A heavy-set, medium tall plainclothes-man grunted carefully out. "Mr. Weehunt, Captain Pennington, please go home."
"Let's also get rid of state and federal interference with the fundamental rights of free citizens," added Weehunt.
Platt adjusted his lion skin and charged the Freeload Prevention man. "Let us see who's a softie, you jowly meat-eater."
"No violence, please," said the policeman. He paused, got out a handkerchief and sneezed into it. "These trees," he said to Max, who was nearest him. "Every autumn."
"Ease yourself on down out of that there truck now," Knobler called to Pennington, whose thin hands were still tight on the steering wheel. "Let's us settle this little fracas, pard."
"I'll get out," said Pennington in a high taut voice. He flung the truck open and began tugging a bazooka out of the rear. "I'll get out."
"Please, Captain Pennington," said the policeman, "put that thing back in there and we'll pretend we didn't see it."
"A bazooka," said Max.
"Fight fair," said Knobler, thumbing the brim of his sombrero up.
Closing in on Pennington, the policeman put his arms on his thin shoulders. "A man with a nice war record like yours, chairman of the board of such nice companies, with such nice friends downtown, Captain Pennington. Please, don't make a fuss."
"He's loosed demons on me," said Pennington. He let the weapon drop back inside his tricolor truck. "Demons and succubi and incubi and worse." He waved a thin hand at Platt and Knobler.
"A couple of eccentrics in costume," said the plainclothes-man. "Take those two back inside to your party, and I'll talk a while with the captain."
"I have more than one arrow in my bow," said Pennington. "Tell your socialized Levin that."
"Don't call my boy names." A plump woman was climbing out of a newly arrived blue station wagon. She was gray-haired, wearing a tan car coat and fawn stretch pants and carrying a small wicker hamper. "Don't call him names in a public street."
"Mom," said Levin, who appeared in the front doorway of his house now. "Mom, you're supposed to be at the wrestling matches over in San Francisco."
"The Portuguese Angel pulled a ligament and stayed home to meditate," said Mom Levin. "So I drove over to case your situation. I see your lawn's looking sparse, Harold."
"Mom, okay, you can come inside, but you can't stay. We have company, Mom."
"Some entertaining of your friends you can do with cops and lunatics all over your sparse lawn."
"There's really no trouble," the policeman told her. "If everyone will disperse, we'll be fine." He sneezed again.
"Too much time in that dark police car and not enough sunshine," Mom Levin told him. She ticked her plump head at the pair of ghosts and went into the house.
"I reckon as how I'll let this pass," said Knobler.
"There'll be other opportunities to teach you flesh-lovers a lesson," added Platt. He took Knobler by the elbow and they strolled away into the new night.
"The suburbs," said the policeman. "People don't realize what can happen out here." He sneezed into his handkerchief.
Max found Jillian in the backyard, sitting in the dark with her hands folded in her lap. "Mom Levin's inside."
"I know."
"Talking about her favorite philosopher."
In the light thrown from the kitchen, Max found the gin and tonic he'd left unfinished. A mosquito had drowned in it. "Who is?"
"Jorge Barafunda," said his wife, discouraging a gnat from her leg.
"Who?"
"Jorge Barafunda, the Portuguese Angel."
"The wrestler," Max said. He found a new glass and started another drink.
"He's a mystic, too."
"That's right," said Max. "Wrestler, philosopher, mystic. Self-taught. Sort of a cross between Eric Hoffer and Bishop Pike."
"And he's supposed to be," said Jillian, "a medium."
"Yeah, there was a piece about it in the Chronicle. Mystic, spirit medium, wrestler. A Renaissance man."
"You know how California is these days," said his slim wife.
"I keep hearing." Max sat on the footrest of her deck chair. "So maybe Barafunda summoned up the ghosts of Mrs. Levin's three favorite departed heroes for her."
"Who are they?"
"William Barbee Platt, Russ Knobler and Joe 'Roundhouse' Widder. A ghost patrol to defend Hal."
"Who were they?"
"You never heard of them?"
"I'm five years younger than you, remember."
"Russ Knobler, Saturday afternoons in the late '30s and early '40s, was the king of the B movies. You never heard of Timber Rascal, Desert Rogue, Speedway Scapegrace?"
Jillian shook her head. "You told me about Widder on the way over here. He was a senator. And Platt?"
"Physical-culture buff, vegetarian, philosopher."
"Another Jorge Barafunda," said Jillian. "You going to talk to the Portuguese Angel?"
"I guess I will," said Max. "Nobody around here is going to tell me much."
From the kitchen window Mom Levin said, "Come inside, you two young people, before the insects give you malaria."
The sunlight through the stained-glass skylights made pastel splotches on the bare chest of the muscular old man. "Words," said Jorge Barafunda. "Words are a lousy way to think. These college people, they think in words. You take a look at my book The Vocabulary Of Muscles, and it's all explained in there."
"I skimmed it in the library this morning," Max told him. "It was full of words."
"They're not ready yet to publish a book that's all pictures of muscles," said Jorge. "Uhn."
"If you put down that weight we could talk better," said Max.
Jorge grunted and kept the hundred-pound weight over his head. "I lift every day. It helps me think."
"What I was interested in," said Max, "was your work as a medium."
"Yes. That's why I granted you an interview, Senhor Kearny. I've heard of you. Some of your ghost detective work, for a relative novice, is muito bem. Very good."
"Did you summon up some ghosts for a Mrs. Levin?" asked Max.
"Oof," said Jorge. His left hand lost its grip on the bar of the weight, and it swung free and thwacked him in the head. "I believe I will put this down." He let the 100 pounds fall to the padded floor of his attic gymnasium. "Sim, Senhor Kearny. I helped Mrs. Levin. She is a great admirer of mine. Once when I battled the Grimm Brothers in a tag match, she leaped into the ring and felled one of them with her wicker basket. Muito bem, very good."
"You charge her a fee for conjuring up the ghosts?"
"Sim," replied the wrestler, snatching up a paisley terry towel. "Being a mystic and a philosopher without a college degree, Senhor Kearny, requires you to have many sidelines in order to make a living. You know how that is."
"Right," said Max. "Now, why don't you send those three ghosts back. Dr. Levin really doesn't want them, doesn't need them."
"I suppose he became a doctor by attending college?"
"Yes."
"College boys," said Jorge. "They don't know how to think with their muscles."
"About the ghosts?" Max asked.
The old wrestler shook his head. "I was paid my fee. I have honor, even though I don't have a diploma. I cannot send them away. No honorable self-taught medium would, Senhor Kearny."
Max said, "Okay. It would be easier if you did. Now I'll have to exorcise them."
The Portuguese Angel laughed. "My magic isn't the usual magic. It has muscles."
"I'll try anyway." Max left his chair. "I'll be getting back. I'm on my lunch hour."
"College boys live to punch clocks and wallow in words."
"I wallow in pictures."
"Mesmo," said Jorge. He bent and raised up the fallen weight with one hand. "If the whole country thought with its muscles, we wouldn't be where we are now."
As Max let himself out of the Victorian gym, he heard the weight thwack Jorge again.
"Turn right at Uncle Sam," said Dr. Levin in the passenger seat.
"I keep telling Jillian not to try exorcising ghosts by herself," said Max, gunning the car up to sixty-five. He slowed again, swung onto the off-ramp next to the thirty-foot-tall wooden Uncle Sam.
"They used to have Abraham Lincoln," explained Levin, "but they decided it was too controversial. So they painted him over into Uncle Sam."
"I was wondering why he had a black beard and a shawl."
"Anyway, Max, it wasn't Jillian's fault. She was over at our place, as I understand it from the note April left, trying to console my wife about that mess last night."
"Trying to find out more about the ghosts."
"And, see, my mom came by and said she was tired of Captain Pennington picking on me and was coming over here to Yankee Doodle Acres to have a showdown with him."
"And bringing the ghost patrol?"
"Yes," said Levin. "Max, mom is really thoughtful, though extreme. My turning thirty still hasn't convinced her I can handle things. That April and I can."
Max said, "April left that note before you got home at five. Its eight now."
"I know," said the doctor. "When I called the Pennington place his houseboy just cried. And I could hear gunshots. Which is why I called the police and then you, Max. I'm sorry. I knew mom was probably using Jorge Barafunda to summon that bunch. I figured, though, if I kept things relatively quiet, the situation would settle down. Eventually."
"What kind of weapons does Pennington have stored at his house?"
"Nobody knows. He has a secret arsenal. The police searched his place twice and couldn't find anything but a Daisy air rifle."
Ahead of them on the road was a replica of Mt. Rushmore. "This the entrance to Yankee Doodle Acres?"
"Yeah. Drive in right next to Teddy Roosevelt's mouth."
There were over a hundred houses in Yankee Doodle Acres, recapitulating American history. Log cabin-style homes, pioneer fort-style homes, California mission-style homes, White House-style homes. "Pennington's is which?"
"403 Liberty Bell Lane. Third fort on the right."
In the warm night, gunfire and shell explosions sounded. "The cops and Pennington must be tangling."
Dr. Levin said, "The captain seems to have exceeded the bounds of conservatism. Even for California."
Around a winding rise and down a gentle incline, they were stopped by a police barricade made of two sawhorses and a Volkswagen. "Little mischief up ahead," said the uniformed policeman. "Nobody can enter this street. We suggest you use Boston Tea Party Drive, two blocks over, as a detour."
"My wife," said Max, "and Dr. Levin's wife. We think they're down at Captain Pennington's."
The policeman flickered his fingers on his white helmet. "The lieutenant was trying to find you two."
"Are the girls all right?" said Max.
"We think so. They appear to be in the house with the captain, and he's gone blooey some. We tried to humor him as usual, but when he and Weehunt hauled out those mortars, we had to act."
"Is my mother okay?" Levin asked across Max.
The policeman said, "She's barricaded behind her station wagon with a guy in a leopard skin and a guy who looks like a lumberjack and some little coot who keeps trying to make speeches. They're all taking potshots at the captain's fort, which is why we figure he started going really blooey in the first place. Though I'm no psychiatrist."
Max parked the car short of the barricade, and he and Levin ran the block to the captain's home. The allergic plainclothesman waved them to duck behind his police car. "The girls," began Max.
"They got here a little ahead of your mother, Dr. Levin. They went in to talk to Captain Pennington, warn him and try to avoid trouble. While they were still inside, your mother and her crew started their invasion. At least that's what the neighbors say." He pointed a thumb at the replica of Monticello next to Pennington's two-story ranch-style wooden fort.
Dr. Levin spotted his mother off in the dark. "Mom, stop this and take those guys home."
His mother called, "Don't sit down on the street; you'll catch cold."
"She stopped shooting a half hour ago," said the lieutenant, "But Pennington and Weehunt have kept them pinned down there with rifle fire."
"Is Weehunt berserk, too?"
"You know how it is in the suburbs, one starts and they all follow."
"Death to all freeloaders," broadcast Captain Pennington from his house.
"Look," said Max. "His lawn is opening up."
A great long trench was growing across the front law. "The gun cache," said Levin.
"That's where he's got his armory," said the plainclothesman.
"He's rising up out of the lawn with an antitank gun," said Max.
The lieutenant bobbed his head and waved to the policemen dotted around in the darkness. More spotlights came on and illuminated Captain Pennington as he set up his weapon. "Captain," shouted the lieutenant, "we ask you to surrender or we'll have to use tear gas."
"Pension-loving lackey," replied the red-haired captain.
"Okay," said the plainclothesman.
As the first tear-gas guns thumped, Max left cover and zigzagged toward the side of the house, leaping the mechanized trench in the lawn. Things were growing clouded and blurred, and Max's eyes began to burn. He leaped the captain's flower beds and banged into the side window with his shoulder and tucked-down head.
When he landed on a hook rug, Jillian said, "Max, is that you?"
"Yes," said Max, sneezing and coughing.
"I thought maybe it was Knobler, entering that way."
"Mom Levin is keeping the ghosts near her for protection," said Max, coughing. "Out." Jillian and April were crouched behind heavy wooden chairs.
"Is that tear gas they're using?" asked April.
Max sneezed again, nodded. "Back way."
"Mr. Weehunt went climbing up on the roof with a bazooka, and he took the houseboy to help him," said Jillian. "First time we've been alone."
"Up out," said Max and followed the women through the house and into the patio. "Jill?"
"Yes," said his wife.
"Can you read? My eyes are going bad from the gas."
"I seem to be okay. Read what?"
Max felt his coat, pulled a small leather book out of his breast pocket. "Page 24, I think. This is a ghost raising and exorcising book written by a 19th-century Spanish circus strongman."
"From our library?" Jillian took the book and Max heard the pages turning. "I don't recognize it."
"From Jorge Barafunda's library. I swiped it while he was lifting weights in the attic. Seems like the kind of muscle-oriented spells he'd pick."
"Do we have to get up close to the ghosts?"
"No, should be able to work the spell from here," said Max. "April?"
"Right here."
"Burn this powder in the barbecue while Jill reads the spell to get rid of the ghosts. There is a barbecue?"
"Of course." April took the packet of yellow powder from Max.
When Max and Jillian reached the street, the police were putting Captain Pennington into the barred part of a police car and trying to coax Weehunt off the roof. "Any ghosts?" asked Max, who still couldn't see too well.
"Gone," said Jillian. "Not behind the station wagon or anywhere in sight. Mom Levin is up the road arguing with the plainclothes cop and Hal. April is running up to join them. You ought to do something about your eyes."
"Might as well get some free advice from Hal," said Max.
"Okay," said Jillian. She took his hand and led him uphill.
THE SECOND TIME THE kitchen caught on fire Wendy Mayer didn't rise from the living room sofa. "Bert?" she called toward the distant door the smoke was billowing through.
Her husband appeared in the smoke, a tall slightly stooped young man. "Do you have a five-dollar bill, Wendy?"
"Another fire?" asked middle-sized Max Kearny, who'd run for the fire extinguisher in the hall closet.
"It's out already. I'm sorry, Max," said Bert Mayer, "to keep you jogging back and forth with that thing. Can I get you a fresh drink, Jillian?"
Max's slim auburn-haired wife was on the window seat, her back to the tree-filled acres outside. "I can wait."
"Bert," asked Wendy, a tall pretty girl with no makeup, "why did you want five dollars?"
Bert blinked. "Excuse me for not mentioning it." He grinned over at Max. "Just smoke now, Max. It was the chafing dish. When I was opening the back door for the delivery boy the chafing dish fell into the salad and the dressing and the denatured alcohol started a fire."
"What delivery boy?" asked Wendy.
"From the Gala market," explained Bert. "The last fire ruined the steaks. I'm sorry. So I ordered some frozen fish. You can't get meat after six o'clock. I hope that's okay with everybody."
"Won't they take a check?" said his wife.
"Not after I knocked him down," said Bert.
"How'd that happen?"
"He drove over the petunia beds out behind the patio and I thought it was the raccoons again come to steal the garbage cans and I ran out," said Bert. "And, I'm sorry, I sort of fell into him. Because the patio lights are on the fritz again. Even after I helped him up the stairs he stayed surly. Max, we sure seem to have trouble with delivery boys. It was the same when we lived near you folks in San Francisco."
Wendy said, "Bert trips a lot."
"I do," agreed Bert. "Can't help it. I'm sorry."
A motor started up outside and they heard a truck driving away. "He didn't wait, I guess," said Wendy. "Max and Jillian, I hope you'll forgive us. Here you are, the first time we've had you to dinner at the house we inherited, and the meal is getting all fouled up."
"They're used to that," said Bert "We gave dinners like this before we moved to Marin County."
"Bert, why don't you make us all fresh drinks and I'll fix up something quick," said his pretty wife. "An omelet or something."
Bert shook his head. "No, Wendy. When we moved in here last month we made up a schedule. Now that I don't have to work any more, I can give a lot more help with the house. And, I'm sorry, but according to the schedule, it's one of my nights to cook. You can understand, Max, our wanting to stick to a schedule and keep ourselves organized."
"It's your mansion and you can run it anyway you'd like." Max scratched the very top of his crewcut head. "Though maybe things would go faster if you just sent out for pizza."
"Those pizza places," said Bert. "They never understand my instructions on how to get here. They always send anchovy even if I ask for salami. No, we're always having trouble with pizza people, Max." He grinned at Jillian. "Anyway, here's Jillian who's a food consultant to your ad agency, Max. She isn't going to eat a pizza in my house. I'm sorry." He noticed that the kitchen had stopped smoking. "I'll whip up something quick. Wendy, come on and get the fresh drinks."
When they were alone in the living room Jillian asked her husband, "Well, is he?"
Max moved to her, rested his forefinger on the nape of her neck. "Haunted? I don't know. Bert's always been sort of a screw-up. Sometimes when you approach thirty it starts to accelerate."
"What about that first fire," asked Jillian. "Could a ghost have done it?"
"His cigarette lighter fell into a pan of cooking oil," said Max. "Maybe something supernatural nudged his hand."
"It's my father," said Wendy, behind them. She put a tray of drinks on a marble-top coffee table. "That's who it is. He won't leave Bert alone. He hasn't since we got married sixteen months ago."
"Your father's ghost, you mean," said Jillian.
Wendy returned to the sofa, sat, nodded. "My father was —as I remember him and he died eight years ago when I was seventeen—he was an exceptionally competent man. He had to be. He was, you know, in the music business most of his life. Lead his own dance band from the 1930s to late in the 1950s. King Challens and His Musical Jacks. Not as well known as Benny Goodman or even Anson Weeks, but we always lived well."
Max picked up a scotch and ice. "What makes you think the ghost is him?"
"It plays all his arrangements."
"Oh, so?" said Max. "There's music."
Wendy shrugged slightly. "Since we moved here anyway, Max. My father was a very careful, efficient man and he did all his own arrangements. I know his versions of 'Harbor Lights' and 'Laura.' "
"Where'd you hear the music?" asked Jillian as Max handed her a glass.
"Well, in the dance pavilion."
"Dance pavilion?"
"Yes, it appears out on the front acre. Where there's mostly grass," said the girl. "It's the Strawhouse Pavilion, where dad played so often in the Forties. I've got photos of it in my scrapbook upstairs."
Max asked, "The whole ballroom shows up to haunt you?"
"And the parking lot. The real Strawhouse Pavilion was torn down—in Sacramento it was—ten years ago," said Wendy. "It's appeared out there some six times now. In fact, the neighbors have begun to complain. We're next door —about three acres away—to the Psycho/Technocratics Foundation, you know. They have all those quiet retreat weekends and I guess hearing 'Tuxedo Junction' from a twenty-four-piece swing band spoils their mood. Bert and I have both apologized."
"Wait now," said Max. "You told Jillian that you felt Bert's been haunted for much longer than just the month or so you've lived here in Marin,"
"Sure," said Wendy. "Really, Max. He wasn't like this before we got married. He maybe wasn't as heads-up and efficient as my father, but he wasn't always setting fire to kitchens and falling over delivery boys either."
"Why is your father supposed to be haunting him?"
Wendy ran her tongue over her upper lip. "It's sort of a joke I guess. Dad always used to kid me I'd never find a husband like him. Now I think he's exaggerating Bert's clumsiness and forgetfulness, making extra things go wrong, to point up the contrast between Bert and himself. You don't always want to marry somebody just like your father anyway."
"Whatever your father's ghost was doing before," Max said, "he didn't bring his ballroom with him then."
"There wasn't any space," said Wendy. "That third floor flat we had was charming but small. Bert could hardly ever even find a place to park our Volkswagen. Where would you have put a dance pavilion?"
"All the evidence, the real evidence, of a ghost," said Max, "has shown up since you got here."
"The signs my father is haunting us are more obvious now, yes," admitted Wendy. "I'd like you to investigate this, Max, and find out exactly what's going on."
Max turned away from her, watched the dark grounds beyond the high wide windows. "The occult investigating, Wendy, has never been more than a hobby. Jillian and I are on our way up to the coast to Wollter's Bay for a week, as you know. For a vacation."
"Max is reluctant about the ghost detective business," said Jillian in her faintly British voice.
"Couldn't you investigate after your vacation? Next weekend maybe," said Wendy.
Max said, "What does Bert feel about this."
"About what?" asked Bert, coming into the big-beam-ceilinged room with a bottle of red wine in his hand. "I'm sorry, Max, I didn't catch what you were saying. The ghost stuff, was it?"
"Wendy's told us about the problems you've been having with what might be her father's ghost," said Max. "She asked me to investigate, but I won't unless you agree."
Bert was pumping the wooden handle of the corkscrew which seemed to be stuck in the cork of the wine bottle. "I like to open the wine early, give it time to breathe. Excuse me a second." He twisted the bit of the corkscrew and the cork plopped down into the wine. "That keeps happening. I have a trick with a fork and a drinking straw that usually gets it out. What were you asking me, Max? Oh, yeah, the ghost. I don't know. I think Wendy is making too much of the situation. Still, if you want to."
From out in the darkness came the sound of automobiles driving across gravel and parking. Yellow and orange lights, throbbing, grew up in the night. "It's him," said Wendy. She hurried to the front door and out onto the elevated sun-deck that looked down on the front acre of the estate.
Max and Jillian followed.
The grass and some of the trees were gone and a bright wood and glass building rested on a wide stretch of gravel. The building was white, octagonal in shape, with a great thatched dome and stretches of latticework all over it. The cars in the parking lot were bright and new, none newer than 1940. The name Strawhouse Pavilion flashed gold and below it were the red neon words, Dine & Dance. An oilcloth banner, painted red and gold, stretched across the space above the wide, arched door and announced the appearance inside of King Challens, his piano and his orchestra. Laughter and light came from the pavilion.
"That's some ghost," said Jillian, holding Max's hand tight.
The band began to play. " 'One O'clock Jump,' " said Wendy. "That was one of his favorites." Her waist was pressing against the porch railing.
"I'm sorry," said Bert, joining them. He had red wine blotches on the leg of his tan slacks. "There's our mysterious phenomenon, Max. You'd think, since I inherited this place from my uncle, that the ghost would be from my side of the family."
"Be quiet a minute," Wendy said without looking at him. Her head moved gently in tempo with the music. "It's hard to see inside the pavilion. Why is that, Max?"
The windows glowed with light but it was a hazy light and you couldn't see anyone inside the pavilion. "I don't know, Wendy." Max touched his wife's hand and let go; he moved down the porch steps toward the yard. The summer night was still warm. Max had walked twenty feet toward the Strawhouse Pavilion when he noticed several people on the grounds. They were staring up at the pavilion.
"We've warned them about this," said a dark-suited man with a shaggy moustache. He was carrying an unplugged mixer. "How can you have a Psycho/Technocratics weekend and play appliance games when this lousy rotten noise is going on." The cord of the electric mixer swung with his angry gestures at the noisy ballroom.
"I take it from your clothes," said Max, "you're not a 1940s ghost."
"You bet your lousy dingbat," said the moustached man. "My wife and I are novices second class at the foundation. My suit is from Lew Ritter in Westwood."
"Connie," said his wife, a blonde woman with a blender under her arm, "don't let your anger spoil all your fine progress."
"What kind of lousy progress am I making when a lousy rotten anachronistic honky tonk can upset me?" He threw his mixer at the ghost pavilion. "As for you, Dr. Wally. I quit. I demand a refund. I want a lousy rotten refund from you. When I pay for silence and beatific solitude I don't want lousy rotten jitterbug music."
Gliding silently across the grass was a tall slender man of about fifty. He had hair like a Midwest poet and a gap between his front teeth. "The fervency of your reactions, the vehemence of your furor, the suffusion of fervid emotions, Mr. Conners," the tall man said, "add nothing to an already pungent situation."
"Listen, Wally," said Conners. He grabbed the blender from his wife and threw it in Wally's direction.
Dodging the flung appliance, Wally asked Max, "Are you an intimate, a confrere, a compatriot of Mr. and Mrs. Mayer? I am Dr. E. Phillips Wally, founder of the Psycho/Technocratics Foundation and pioneer in appliance therapy."
"Yes, I'm Max Kearny. I'm a guest at the Mayers'," Max told him. "Why are you and your disciples carrying appliances?"
Dr. Wally smiled. "You haven't read, haven't pored over, haven't studiously regarded my book, which is called “If You Like Machines, You'll Like People"?
A dark woman of forty was at Wally's side now. The pavilion was playing a slow waltz. "Don't waste time, Phil. What would this schmuck understand about establishing rapport with the deep forces of machinery."
"My wife, Charlotte," said Dr. Wally.
"You look to be some kind of public relations simp like your friend Bert Mayer."
"Advertising art director," said Max. This thin dark-haired woman looked vaguely familiar. Max pointed a thumb at the pavilion. "What do you know about this?"
"Only that we want it to stop," Dr. Wally told him. "The noise, the increasing frequency of the noise, Mr. Kearny, is disrupting, desolating, and laying waste to the important silences my work and my therapy call for."
"What's this boob know about tranquility?" said Charlotte Wally.
The music of King Challens's big band, the shuffling of feet on the dance floor, all the sounds of the pavilion began to grow dim. The image of the ballroom was becoming less distinct. For a few seconds the sound and look of the place flared full again, then it was gone. There was grass again, trees. Mrs. Wally gave a small grunt and gathered up the two appliances Conners had flung. She and Dr. Wally walked away toward the pines and redwoods at the edge of the estate, up the gradual incline and into the woods. Their disciples left with them.
Max went and paced the area where the Strawhouse Pavilion had stood. He found nothing. From the three-story Mayer house came a mild explosion. Max ran back to the porch and Jillian met him on the steps. "Bert again?"
Jillian nodded yes. "Looks like we'll all he going into Tiburon for dinner."
"I'll drive," said Max.
Seagulls were walking in single file along the warm sand toward Max. He squinted slightly in the bright noon sun and watched them. On the hillside behind him underbrush rattled and crackled. Max stretched up off his towel and saw Bert Mayer tumbling, fully clothed, from the edge two hundred feet above. When he hit the white sand of the beach Bert rolled over twice more, sat up. He held part of a flowering bush in his right hand.
"I'm sorry," said Bert, getting to his feet as Max approached. "I guess I ruined your flowers."
"You okay?"
"I suppose," said Bert. "I should have tried the stairs but I had a bad experience with old rickety weather-beaten stairs like that once and I decided to try the hillside, except I tripped over something."
"What brings you?"
"That's what Jillian asked," said Bert. "I saw her up at the cottage. She's really gotten a tan in the three days you've been here." He started to hand Max the bush, decided to throw it away. "I hate to bother you, Max, but that ghost—well, things are much worse. The ghost of Wendy's father is showing up every night now. The pavilion is really bothering the Wallys. You know, he was trying to buy our place just before my uncle died and left it to me. I suppose Wally'd like us out of there entirely."
"He would, huh? What else is worse about the ballroom?"
"Wendy," Bert said. "Wendy seems to be getting more and more fascinated with the place, with the idea her father's ghost is playing in there. She used to just stand on the sundeck and watch. Last night she started walking up to the place." He shook his head. "Mrs. Wally told me it would be dangerous if Wendy went right in there."
Max said, "Charlotte Wally, Charlotte Wally," and tapped his bare foot three times in the sand. "Of course she'd say that."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"I thought she looked familiar," said Max, grinning. "She wasn't always in the psychoelectric business. Eight or nine years ago, when I was first getting interested in occult detecting I went to one of her seances."
"Seances? She was connected with ghosts?"
"Right," said Max. "A very good medium and very good at summoning up all kinds of spirits and spectres." His foot tapped the sand again. "I'll have a talk with the Wallys."
"Good. Maybe that'll help. I hate to see you cut your vacation short but this is an emergency."
"It's your emergency," said Max. "Jillian and I will be at your place on Saturday."
"This is Wednesday, Max. Suppose she goes inside the ghost pavilion before Saturday?"
"You'll have to keep her from doing that."
"How?"
"Hold on to her if you can't talk her out of it."
"I don't know. I guess I can." He put his hands in his pockets. "One other favor, Max."
"Which?"
"My car got stuck in the sand off the road up there. Can you help me tow it out?"
Max said, "Okay, Bert," and led him to the stairs.
The branches of the willow trees flicked against the bow window of the study and Dr. Wally turned his head away from the refrigerator. He noticed Max. "I can tell you nothing of consequence, nothing of significance, nothing of great moment about the unfortunate—and much too loud—haunting our neighbors are suffering. If you'd like to sit down and meditate, you're welcome."
There was an electric toaster on the only other chair. "No, thanks," said Max. He stepped around a portable dishwasher and a clothes dryer. "Your wife used to be a successful spirit medium. In fact, you used to put on a turban and run the checkroom. A few days after the Mayers move in next door to you they start having ghosts."
"A coincidence; an accidental synchronish; an innocent concurrence," said Wally. He put his fingers on the smooth sand-colored surface of the refrigerator and closed his eyes. "We gave up the spirit dodge years ago, Kearny, after I got my PhD. When I found how to establish rapport with machinery and how to translate into it the daily conduct of life, there was no more need for the other world."
Max leaned against a water cooler. "I notice you can communicate with machines even when they're not plugged in."
"You're not ready for that concept," said Wally. "You must work up. My advice to you, Kearny, is to try to understand your electric can opener, then perhaps work up to your power lawn mower."
"We live in a flat."
"If you could even relate to your wristwatch or understand your doorbell," said Wally. "It would be progress."
"I'd like to talk to your wife."
Wally shook his head. "Oh, you're not ready for that yet. Start with your wristwatch. No, Charlotte takes a long preparation." He shut his eyes, turned in his canvas chair, and was with the refrigerator again.
Max stepped out into the hall, which was full of appliances and cardboard cartons. Two doors past Dr. Wally's study, someone hissed at him. The doorway was partially blocked by a sewing machine. In the small room it led to was Charlotte Wally. "In here, boob."
Max slid the sewing machine aside, stepped over a carton of mixers. "I wanted to ask you some questions."
"That's all nitwits like you ever want." She was wearing a dark and narrow ankle-length lounging robe and her hair was done into two long braids. "Listen, rube. I need your help. Imagine that, turning to a peabrain for aid."
"You ought to have another talk with that sewing machine and get rid of some of your hostility," said Max. "You're responsible for the ghost of King Challens, aren't you?"
"Shut up and listen." Mrs. Wally crossed to an electric stove and slid out the broiler drawer. "I have to hide my collection from the good doctor. He's a clunk at times himself. Here, coconut, this is the book I used."
Max took the proffered magic book. It was bound in cracked black leather. He read the title aloud. "Familial Ghosts And Various And Diverse Ways To Summon Them."
"I'm going to loan that to you, stupe. Don't lose it. It's a first edition, besides being invaluable for the spells in it."
"You used this to summon up the ghost of Wendy's father. What went wrong?"
"I didn't expect the whole pavilion and all the noise," said Charlotte Wally. "My husband—and I was feeling sentimental toward the jerk at the time—had his heart set on acquiring that place of the Mayers'. We almost had the old uncle convinced he should sell and then he died. As soon as your chums moved in I paid a courtesy call on the pair of dimwits. I found out all I needed to know." She smiled evenly. "She's got a thing about her father and he's a screw-up. I figure the ghost of her father would either break them up or scare them off."
"A common motive in ghost cases," remarked Max. "All the extra ghosts or whatever they are, the big band and the noise is hurting business here."
"I wanted to do this as a surprise for old nuts and bolts, my husband. Now I can't even admit I'm involved. That's where you come in, dodo."
Max asked, "Why can't you call off the ghosts yourself?"
"Turn to page 112, dumbbell."
Max did and read the spells written there. "That's great. The only way to reverse the spell is to get the nearest kin of the haunted person to go up against the ghost and read a counter spell."
"Kin to kin, a nice old-fashioned touch," said Mrs. Wally. "I knew Bert Mayer, the nearest kin as defined by that spell, even if he found out what was going on, wouldn't be able to bring off the counter spell."
Marking the place with his finger, Max said, "He'll have to."
"For a jerk, you've had some pretty good luck as a ghost breaker. You'll have to coach that boob."
"First," said Max, "you'll have to sign an agreement not to hex or spell the Mayers in any way again. Otherwise I don't cooperate."
Mrs. Wally went to a front-load washing machine and got out writing paper and a rattling little box of steel tip pens.
Jillian came running into the guest room of the Mayer house. She stopped, hesitated waiting for her breath, then said, "Max, it's out there and she's gone inside."
Bert Mayer jumped up out of the wicker easy chair. "The pavilion?"
"Yes, it showed up just a minute ago, while Wendy and I were setting the table out on the patio in back," said Jillian, two folded white cloth napkins still in her hand. "Wendy heard it, drifted off. I followed, couldn't stop her. She pushed me away and ran. Right inside the place."
The magic book slid out of Bert's hand. "Max, I figured it wouldn't get here for an hour or two."
Max was still sitting on the edge of the bed. "Bring the book and let's go."
"I'm sorry," said Bert. "What page was it again? I should have taken notes while you explained."
"Page 112." Max stood and walked out of the room.
Bert caught up with him in the hallway. "Are ghosts really that perceptive, Max? Would they absolutely know it wasn't me if you went in."
"Yes." Max and Bert went out the front door, across the sundeck and down the steps. The Strawhouse Pavilion was sharp and clear, the band was playing "In The Mood." The windows still did not show anyone inside, the glare and haze preventing that.
"I'll mess it up," said Bert. "Read it backwards."
Max said, "No, you won't. You'll go in and get Wendy out and do what you have to do and end this. Right?"
Bert said, "Okay." He left the real grass, hesitated just onto the gravel, then walked to the flashing pavilion and up the wide wood staircase and in.
Jillian joined Max, took his hand. "What do you think?"
"Watch," he said.
The band finished the tune and there was applause. They went into "Sophisticated Lady." The number was almost finished when the Strawhouse Pavilion exploded. It flashed bright, expanded and was suddenly gone. The cars, the parking lot, the sounds, the past. All were gone and Bert and Wendy were in the field of dark grass. The sky was night clear and you noticed stars again.
Bert and Wendy walked to Max and Jillian. "Wasn't too hard," Bert told them. He was shaking his head, half smiling.
Wendy said quietly, "I wonder if my father was always like that. He didn't seem very much like I remember. Just a middle-aged man, trying so hard to impress everyone." She waved a hand at where the pavilion had stood, not turning. "He willed all that, he said, kept it coming back. He was the ghost and the rest of it he willed somehow. To impress me, have me see him at his best. I don't quite know how he did it. He wouldn't talk about that, about himself that way. He told me, 'You wouldn't get it, Wendy.' He always used to say that. Why did I forget he did? He wanted to impress me. He couldn't just come back. He had to bring a ballroom." She stopped, touched Bert. "You handled the situation very well, Bert."
"Wasn't too hard," he said.
THE CALICO CAT YOWLED AND came somersaulting down the shadowy attic stairs. It skittered into Ollie's high dark-wood bedroom and dived under the bunk bed. Thunder rolled and hard rain battered the stained glass skylight. The heavy wooden window shutters creaked and fought the hard pull of the night wind.
"Why can't I stay up and see the ghost?" asked Ollie from the upper bunk.
At the doorway Patricia Lewin said, "It's past your bedtime, Ollie."
"You could make an exception when there's a ghost roaming around the halls."
"There're no ghosts here, Ollie," said Patricia. "The thunder scared the cat."
"My stomach hurts," said Ollie. "I have to get up."
"No," the slender blonde girl told the boy. "Now I'm letting you sleep in the upper tonight. Don't push things too far."
"Uncle Ogden bought me a bunk bed just for me so I could have variety," said Ollie. "He doesn't care if I sleep high or low. I forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste. I'd better get up."
"Stay where you are, Ollie. It's after nine, go to sleep."
Lightning flashed and the window glass rattled with the thunder that followed. The calico cat slipped out from under the bed, rolled on its back and punched a paw at a flap of blanket. "See," said the seven-year-old, "Oscar isn't even ascared of thunder. It takes a real authentic ghost to make a cat's hair stand up like it was. Why does a cat's fur do that, Patricia?"
"We'll look it up in the morning, Ollie." Patricia narrowed her eyes, watching the long thickly-rugged hallway of the mansion.
"My ears hurt when I lay down."
"I'm going to put your lights out now," said the girl. She put her back to the doorway and walked toward the boy's bureau.
"When you lay with your head down probably the whole insides of your head could run out of your ear," said the dark-haired boy.
"We'll look up ears in the morning, Ollie." Patricia glanced at the oval mirror above Ollie's lamp. It gave her a view of the hall. Floating there now, three feet from the floor, was a dusty sheaf of papers. Old, age-wrinkled yellow sheets of note paper. As Patricia watched, the small bundle gradually disappeared, like a moon waning in a speeded up film.
The cat let its head loll back and its wide eyes darted a look at the hallway. Yowling again, the cat shinnied up a bedpost and jumped on Ollie's back. "Probably a whole parade of ghosts going by," said the boy, handing Oscar out to Patricia.
The girl tucked the cat against her left breast and turned off the lights in the bedroom. "Night, Ollie," she said. "Don't let anything scare you."
"I don't want to get scared by the ghosts. I just want to get a look at them."
Patricia stepped carefully into the hallway. Thunder rolled again, fainter. Oscar arced his tail and brushed at her cheek. Patricia inhaled deeply, then pressed her lips together. Nearly a month now. She couldn't admit it to Ollie. But it must be ghosts, or one of those poltergeists. They were supposed to like children.
She had been governess for Ollie Boothrod for three months and she liked the job. She'd have to tell Ogden Boothrod, Ollie's uncle and her employer, about the things happening nights up on the third floor of his Presidio Heights mansion. The floating objects, the odd creakings, the footsteps. Boothrod was in the beamed white kitchen, under the hanging pots and skillets, squinting into the copper kettle on the iron stove. In his long-fingered left hand he had a wooden spoon. He was a tall, narrow man, bald with a round polite face. He was just forty and his brown-rimmed glasses were steamed. After dipping the spoon carefully into the kettle, Boothrod stepped back. "I can't remember about the carrot."
Patricia dropped Oscar on the parquet and the cat jumped for a sliver of chicken that had fallen off the big wood butcher's table. "Mr. Boothrod," began the girl.
"The veal knuckle is in," said Boothrod, sniffing the spoon. "I can't see the carrot or detect its flavor. Still, if I add one now and there's already a carrot that'll make two. Which will blow the stock for sure."
"Mr. Boothrod. Is there anything in the traditions of this house to indicate, well, unnatural phenomena?"
Boothrod scratched the chest of his striped chefs apron. "You taste this, Patricia. See if you can sense the presence or absence of one large sliced carrot." He held the wooden spoon to her. "Boothrod Manor was built in 1876. My greatgrandfather, Omer Boothrod, was a typical San Francisco banker and land pirate. There was Uncle Oscar. Uncle Oscar. How does that taste?"
"It tastes like hot water, Mr. Boothrod."
"My impression, too." He shook his head. "After three hours of simmering with a four to five pound washed and trussed fowl in there, not to mention ten whole peppercorns, you'd expect more than a warm tap water flavor. I can't move on to anything else without good stock to work with. Stock is everything in cooking, to paraphrase Escoffier."
"Was your Uncle Oscar murdered, violently done in up in the attic maybe?"
"No, he fell off the gazebo just before the quake," said Boothrod. "He was always dabbling."
"Dabbling?"
"On the borders of science and medicine," said her employer. "Don't you have a friend who's an expert on cooking matters?"
"Jillian Kearny," said Patricia, brightening. "She's a professional food consultant, works for advertising agencies here in San Francisco. And her husband is . . ."
"Is what?"
"Oh," said the girl, "he's an art director with an agency. Why don't I invite them over. Tomorrow night?"
Boothrod nodded. "That's swell, Patricia. Ask them for dinner. They won't object to the fact that I believe Ollie's governess should be treated as one of the family and share the family table? No, fine. I'll prepare one of my full-course awful dinners, and Mrs. Kearny can criticize each terrible part of it as we dine. As to dinner this evening—"
"I'll pop down to that little French place on Laurel. I can stop by the Kearny's flat afterwards; it's near there."
"I suppose I can salvage enough fowl out of the stock to fix myself a chicken sandwich," said Boothrod. "Are you certain the thunder and lightning and rain won't make going out too much of a hazard?"
"I like to walk in the rain," the girl said. She smiled and left the kitchen. Maybe Max Kearny was exactly the right person to invite to Boothrod Manor.
The man with the shoulder-length red hair slapped down into the theater seat next to Max Kearny. He reached across Max and shook hands with Max's slim, auburn-haired wife. "Hi, Jill, Max. Welcome to my premiere."
"How'd you get your hair to grow so fast, Misch?" said Max.
Misch McBernie dutch rubbed Max's crewcut. "It's a wig. The moustache is authentic. I'm in a transition period, Max, Jill. From $25,000 a year junior account executive on Doob's Cottage Cheese to psychedelic playwright in just two brief months. A difficult life period. Rebecca's left me."
Jillian Kearny said, "We didn't know that, Misch."
Misch shot the cuffs of his orange shirt out beyond the sleeves of his paisley suit. "I'm not one to broadcast self-pity, Max, Jill. Rebecca simply didn't comprehend the point that if I don't get in on the youthquake now, I won't ever have another chance. My god, I'm twenty-eight."
Max, who was thirty-four, said, "With that wig you could pass for twenty-two."
The big man chuckled. "I get real charismatic when I'm around these kids, these beautiful young people. So when the Fatal Glass Of Beer offered to produce my second play with some of their money, I hopped right in. I'm expanding."
"We're looking forward to seeing the play," said Julian.
Misch tapped the Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist. "Curtain is going to be delayed," he said, gesturing at the fifty or so young people in the small North Beach theater. "These lads aren't time bound. Curtain at eight-thirty, that's a tradition meaning nothing to them."
"Why is it late?" asked Max.
"See, you've got the over-thirty establishment mind," grinned Misch. "The cops are backstage frisking the Washington Merry-Go-Round. They think the electric sitar player is holding grass."
"Are these folk-rock groups going to be in your play?" asked Jillian, as a girl in a yellow and lavender mother hub-bard sat down in front of her.
"Yes, they form the Greek chorus," said Misch. "The Washington Merry-Go-Round and the Fatal Glass Of Beer will both be on stage. Except for Lupo, Fatal's electric tambourine man, because he got busted for selling a book of pornographic Chinese love lyrics."
"Been several down with pornography raids lately," said Max.
"Not only the fuzz," said Misch. "All kinds of dingbat groups. Especially a bunch who call themselves Comstock: 2. They've even been phoning me and telling me not to put on The Lightbulb, my play tonight. Comstock:2, they're against everything. Fill in the blank. They're against it."
"They really think your play is lewd?" said Jillian.
"Well, they got word that Joan of Arc isn't going to wear any clothes and it unsettled them," said Misch. "Actually The Lightbulb isn't dirty in any traditional sense. Whatever so-called dirty words are in the dialogue are drowned out when the folk-rock kids play their electric blues anyway." The theater lights went out and the art nouveau rolled up. The audience murmured, grew quiet. On the bare stage three people stood next to a darkened phonebooth.
"Joan of Arc, Secretary Rusk, and Humphrey Bogart," explained Misch in a whisper.
"Bogart in the trenchcoat," said Max. "I guessed him."
The actor playing Secretary of State Rusk pointed at the phonebooth and said, "Crap."
Joan of Arc, in a violet swimsuit, started to reply. Instead, she rose four feet in the air, floated toward the phonebooth. She screamed and waved her arms. Humphrey Bogart's trench coat jumped up, bunching around his head, and Dean Rusk yelled and sailed off the stage and into the front row seats. Joan of Arc, still floating, knocked over the phone-booth.
"Great special effects," said Max.
"Holy moley," yelled Misch. He leaped up and went running for the stage. "Where are you dingbat establishment bastards? Stop tampering with the mood of my play."
Joan of Arc flew straight into him, the lights snapped out and the audience began roaming.
"Another fuzz stunt," said the girl in the mother hubbard.
Jillian caught Max's hand. "Max, what did that?"
Max shrugged. "I more or less gave up occult investigation when we got married. I'm just an over thirty AD now."
"Unless Misch is putting us on," said his wife, "something occult caused all the frumus up there. Ghosts or magic spells?"
The lights blossomed on and Max took Jillian by the arm. "You know, there have been several odd things like this happening lately. Two hundred copies of that book of anti-Vietnam limericks that set themselves on fire in the window of the Modern Times bookshop, that psychedelic blues singer who floated out the window of the Yardbird Suite, and the Love & Freedom Brigade girl who was apparently attacked by a bunch of her own lapel pins."
"Where'd you hear about those?"
"In Herb Caen's column," said Max. "A ghost patrol, some conservative warlocks. Who, I'm not sure yet."
Misch had himself untangled from Joan of Arc and was jumping up and down on the stage. Three uniformed policemen were peeking out of the wings.
"Let's wait in the lobby for Misch," said Max.
"Too bad the play got spoiled. I wanted to find out what was wrong with the phonebooth."
"Lightbulb didn't work. Like society."
They moved for the lobby and Max was pushed against a door jamb by two blond boys in checkered suits. He side-looked at his elbow as it scraped against a protruding nail head. Max took three steps, halted, stopped Jillian. He waited until the last of the audience, three Negro girls in red leather pants suits, exited.
"Huh," said Max. He reached out and touched the nail. He had felt a round head, but the nail he saw seemed headless. Gingerly he pinched it. The tip of his finger disappeared.
"What are you doing with your finger, Max?"
Max felt rough cloth where his finger end had vanished. "It's a piece of cloth."
Reaching out, Jillian asked, "It makes things invisible?" She touched his unseen finger tip. "Feels like monk's cloth, some rough cloth."
Max took the swatch and dropped it in his pocket. "With a whole suit of this stuff, or a cloak—"
"You'd be invisible."
"And if you lifted up Joan of Arc and tossed," said Max, "you'd give the impression she was floating."
"Good thing she wasn't in armor," said Jillian. "So whoever disrupted The Lightbulb came by here, snagged himself on the nail either sneaking in or getting away."
Max shook out a filter cigarette and fitted it into a filter holder. "The occult detection thing has always been just a hobby with me. My real profession should be advertising. No reason to get involved in tracking down a bunch of invisible men."
"Come on," said his wife. "Advertising isn't a real profession. Besides, putting on an invisible suit and throwing three actors and a phonebooth off a stage, that's a violation of civil rights. Not to mention those attacks on other people."
Max said, "Yeah, I'll get involved."
Patricia Lewin was sitting on their Victorian doorstep, hands in pockets and knees tight together. Max helped her up, digging out the door keys.
"I decided to wait," said the girl. "Hello, Jillian."
"It's nearly midnight," said Jillian. "Is there trouble over at that mansion where you work?"
"The place is haunted," said Patricia.
"No," said Max, pushing the thick door open and standing aside. "No, I'm not going to listen."
"Max already has an occult case to work on," said Jillian when they were in the Kearny flat.
"Not being much up on the occult business," said Patricia, "I don't know if you can handle two occult problems at once or not."
"It's not a business," said Max. "A hobby."
"Tell him anyway," said Jillian. "Coffee?"
"Fine," said Patricia. She sat in a yellow wicker armchair. "You have a new rug, Jill?"
"Three hundred dollars worth of Bokhara," said Max. "Bought behind my back from a couple of Armenians in an alley."
"The problem," said Jillian.
Patricia said, "As you know, Max, I work as a governess in a gloomy Victorian mansion uphill from here. I look after a bright seven-year-old boy and help him with his lessons. For the past month a series of odd things has been happening."
"Your boss is a mysterious dark man and he never lets you go into the north wing?" said Max.
"He's bald and affable, works in a brokerage firm. He's an amateur gourmet chef, Jill. The only place I can't go is the basement, because that's been converted into an apartment and Mr. Boothrod's nephew and two of his friends live there. Richard C. Karno is his name and I think he's sort of conservative."
Max had picked the brandy bottle from the mantel. He set it back. "What?"
"Mr. Boothrod is an amateur gourmet."
Max shook his head. "Richard C. Karno lives in your basement?"
"In Mr. Boothrod's gloomy Victorian basement."
"Karno," said Jillian, bringing in the china coffee pot. "We saw him interviewed on Channel Nine."
"Yeah," said Max, "he's the head of Comstock:2, the group that's been hounding Misch." He frowned at Patricia. "Exactly what's happening at the Boothrod place?"
"Things float," said the blonde.
"And?"
"Or vanish. Sometimes I hear footsteps and don't see anybody. The attic. Lots in the attic, I hear scraping noises. My notion is that Ollie, he's the one I governess for, he probably attracts ghosts. The way children do. Don't they?"
"Teenage girls," said Max. "Not six-year-old boys."
"Ollie is seven."
"Still," said Max. "Pat, I'd like to get inside that mansion." Patricia smiled from Max to Jillian. "Mr. Boothrod wants you to come to dinner tomorrow night, around eight-thirty. He's an awful cook."
"We'll be there," Max said.
"Maybe Richard C. Karno was wearing the trick suit," said Jillian while she poured coffee.
"You married people," said Patricia. "You have all kinds of personal slang outsiders can't fathom."
From the rainy street sprang the sound of a guitar. Max crossed to the bow window. "Seems to be Misch McBernie and the Washington Merry-Go-Round." A Volkswagen bus with violet roses painted on its sides was parking in the driveway of the Kearnys' building.
At his side Jillian said, "That's not the Washington Merry-Go-Round, it's the Fatal Glass Of Beer."
"That's right," said Max. "I recognize the guy with the paisley tattoos."
"Are you having a party?" asked Patricia.
"Nope," said Max, his hand closing over the small piece of invisible cloth in his coat pocket. "Just another one of my clients."
On the way to work the next morning, Max stopped in at Pedway's Book Store. W. R. Pedway was a small, tense man with straight-standing white hair. He had talked Max into buying a remaindered occult encyclopedia six years back and shortly after started him on his career as an amateur ghost breaker and occult investigator. Max still came to Pedway for advice.
Pedway was pulling up the big shades in the secondhand shop windows, grimacing at the misty rain. "I hear that in Los Angeles they held a drive-in black mass last week," he said to Max.
"You can't do anything in LA without a car." From his pocket Max took the invisible swatch. "Can you identify this for me?"
Pedway took the sample and wrapped it around his thumb, which disappeared down to the first joint. "Piece of home woven cloth torn from a cloak of invisibility. Where'd you come by it?"
Max told him, and about Misch's play and Richard C. Karno's group and the rest. Then he asked, "Anything in the history of the old Boothrod mansion to tie it in with magic?”
“ Our friend, Pat Lewin, mentioned an Oscar Boothrod who fooled around with alchemy in the 1890s."
Pedway unwound the cloak fragment and his thumb came back. He set the sample on his counter and shifted a stack of air pulps. Underneath was a dime store scrapbook: "I'm considering putting a lot of my files into a computer," he said, flipping the book open. "I can't get the style computer I want."
"Which is?"
"Black Forest." Pedway flicked pages. "Here. Oscar Boothrod was a pioneer in steam aerodynamics."
"You mean he made an airplane back in 1890 that flew on steam?"
"No, he was a bird fancier, too. He invented a steam-driven seagull. Got a patent on it," said Pedway. "He also leaned in the direction of alchemy. Signed a pact with the devil."
"How do you know that?"
"He had the pact notarized. I got a copy of the records." Pedway dropped the open scrapbook, "There were rumors in the 90s that Oscar had cracked the invisibility barrier. Even a story in the Examiner, in the fashion section, hinting he'd loomed a couple of cloaks of invisibility. Only rumors."
"Oscar Boothrod's files, maybe even the cloaks," said Max, leaning against a table of girls' series books, "the stuff could have been stored in the attic at the mansion."
"Exactly," replied Pedway. "Oscar was still tinkering with invisibility when he fell off a gazebo. He was up there waiting for his steam gull to home."
"How can you counter this kind of magic invisibility?"
"Boothrod's solution to the problem may have been magic and it may have been alchemical. I'll give you something for both angles," said Pedway. "You planning to go up against this Richard C. Karno and his Comstock:2?"
"If he's using the stuff, yes. We're going over to the Boothrod mansion for dinner tonight and Karno lives in the basement."
Pedway lifted the invisible cloth. "I saw a play by your friend, McBernie. They put it on in an all night cafeteria out in Potrero Hills. Called The Towelrack. Lyndon Johnson, James Dean, and Bo Diddley are in a washroom trying to get the towelrack to work."
"Yeah, well," said Max. "Somebody has to defend the right to be lousy."
"Makes a nice crusade." Pedway bobbed, reached under the counter. "I'll give you two spells and some powder I got from an alchemist over in Oakland who went bankrupt. Should turn the cloak visible, probably permanently. We can try it out on this little piece first." He had fetched up a leatherbound book and a plastic pill bottle filled with yellow grains of powder. "I'll read the spells and you shake some of this powder on the cloth. Okay?"
Max snapped the lid off the powder container. "This says take one spoonful in an ounce of water four times a day."
"Not the bottle it came in." Pedway began muttering and Max shook the yellow powder.
There was a faint sizzling sound and a square of brown cloth appeared atop the counter.
"Not much of a shade," said Pedway.
When Max left the store he had the two spells and the powder in his briefcase.
Max stood under a striped sandwich shop awning on Montgomery Street, trying not to watch a pale man with rimless glasses chewing a baloney sandwich. Two lunch hour secretaries, walked by, one saying, "If you like chicken I know a place."
Across the wet street was a small storefront office labeled Comstock:2. A poster on the door said, "Clean Mind, Clean Body, Clean Air, Clean Water, Clean Streets."
Max sprinted over, went into the Comstock:2 office. There was nothing in the low rugless room but a card table piled with pamphlets and broadsides, next to it a straight-standing young man in a navy blue suit. Three air conditioners hummed, one in each wall.
"Refreshing in here, isn't it?" said the man. He talked like a ventriloquist, lips stiff. He was Richard C. Karno.
"Feels clean."
"Comstock:2 is against pollution," said Karno. "We've successfully cleaned up the air in two major California cities. We've unpolluted the water in an important river's tributary. Closed down three lithographers who specialized in girl calendars and caused the picketing of four hundred and three newsstands."
"I guess I can't smoke in here?"
"No, it would pollute," said Karno. "How can I help you?"
"I thought I'd pick up some of your literature."
"Here you have our newest. Entitled Four Hundred And Sixty-Two Pounds Of Smut."
"Your own title?"
"Yes. It refers to the amount of smut the average blue-eyed blonde-haired little seven-year-old girl passes on her way to Sunday school."
"How did you figure that?"
"We bought some smut and weighed it." Karno touched the tip of his chin, bent over the card table. "I think I'll give you one each of our booklets and a Comstock:2 bumper sticker, which says, 'Don't let your blue-eyed blonde-haired little girl be ruined by smut.' "
"Won't fit on the average bumper."
"I have to admit to a slight overlap," said Karno as he made Max a bundle of Comstock:2 literature.
"Would you have anything on magic?" asked Max, raking the material off the table and into his briefcase. "Spells, transmutation, invisibility, dowsing?"
Karno had a Comstock:2 lapel button in his hand. He jabbed the pin into his thumb and said, "What was your name, sir?"
"I'm just an average blue-eyed blond average citizen."
"You don't have blue eyes or blond hair," said Karno, who had both. "Please return my reading matter and leave."
Max jammed the briefcase under his arm and backed quickly out. Across the street the pale man was still at his sandwich.
Black, three stories high, at the top of a zigzag flagstone path, was the Victorian Boothrod mansion. The rain had stopped. Thin fog was tumbling down over the tree tops and gliding across the brush-thick grounds.
Max took his hand from Jillian's and rang the bell. The two spells were in his coat pocket wrapped around the yellow powder.
Julian sniffed. "I think I can smell dinner going awry."
"People don't use the word awry in real life. Only in Misch McBernie plays,"
"By the way, did you see Misch this morning?" asked his wife. "I forgot to tell you."
"When? No, I didn't."
"Right after you left for Pedway's. He came by in a pastel bus with a group called The Bayshore Freeway. Misch said a lightbulb had gone off over his head and he wanted to see you. I told him where you were headed."
"No," said Max, poking the bell again. "He must have missed me."
The carved door swung in and a dark-haired little boy looked out. "Are you the ghost breaker?"
"Yeah," said Max. "You Ollie?"
"Uncle Ogden is out in the kitchen with a flat soufflé and he won't listen to me, but Cousin Richard caught Patricia exploring the attic, which she said your wife told her was loaded probably with arcane lore, and they've got her, I bet all tied up by now, in their rooms downstairs."
"Did you call the cops?"
"On occult matters I thought I might as well wait for a specialist," Ollie told them.
"How do I get to Richard's flat?"
"Go around the house, through the arbor, and then there's an orange door down some stone steps. Better sneak, though."
Behind the boy Ogden Boothrod appeared. "Mrs. Kearny, I've got a really terrible halibut mousse inside. Can you come in and inspect it and tell me where I went astray?"
"Awry," said Jillian. "Shall I stick with you, Max?"
"No. Get inside."
"I lost control of the dill weed," Boothrod explained, ushering Jillian in. Ollie started out but Jillian caught him back.
Max moved into the tall, wet grass along the gravel path which circled the house, then nudged into the high bushes. Leaves suddenly spattered him, and a bus engine roared in the fog. Max jumped, and a violet and crimson bus shot by and braked, stopping against the mansion's gingerbread side. Lettered on the bus was The Fatal Glass Of Beer.
A scarlet motor scooter and three lemon yellow motorcycles came fast in the wake of the bus. One of the cycles had a sidecar and in it, his red hair flying, was Misch McBernie. "Max, I've been dogging your footsteps and I know all," shouted Misch. "I got a lightbulb over the head when I got to thinking about what your friend, Patricia, was telling me at your place last night." He leaped to the dark lawn. "When I missed you at Pedway's I had a chat with him and confirmed my hunch that the plot against me centered here. I got my kids rounded together and decided to coincide my invasion with yours. It should be beautiful."
"Quiet," said Max. "How the hell do you think you're going to sneak up on anybody in yellow motorcycles?"
"Blitzkriegs don't have to be subtle."
The door of the bus hissed open and the Fatal Glass Of Beer jumped out, each in bellbottom pants, leather vests, and Indian headbands. "Crap," said the lead man and Max recognized him as the actor who'd played Dean Rusk.
The driver of Misch's motorcycle was dressed General Custer style, except for a hand-painted hula-girl necktie. The other cycles held the rhythm section of the Washington Merry-Go-Round. Three Negro girls in red leather pants suits climbed out of the bus. A young man in an orange levi suit began unloading amplifiers from the luggage bin.
Max said to Misch, "Back off. They've got Pat in their apartment."
Misch flew into the air, arms flapping, and landed against the scooter.
An invisible fist punched Max in the nose. He ducked, twisted sideways and yanked out the spells and powder. He read the backwards Latin and scattered yellow grains. No one appeared. Then a karate chop caught Max from behind and he slammed to his knees.
"It's the invisible guy," said one of the Fatal Glass Of Beer. They all jumped.
Somebody expelled breath. Max shook his head clear and palmed himself upright. He threw powder at the stack of folk-rock singers and repeated the spells. The wet grass sizzled and in a moment Richard C. Karno materialized beneath the Fatal Glass of Beer, wearing a full-length brown robe.
"I like his gear," said the tallest Negro girl.
"Where's Pat?" Max said, down next to the pile on.
"Not a clean mind or body in the lot," said Karno, after a stiff-necked survey.
"Where is she?"
"Well," said the Comstoek:2 leader, "she's in the den with two of my lieutenants."
"Invisible ones?"
"You find out," said Karno.
Max ran for the orange door, followed by Misch.
Misch pushed ahead of Max and galloped halfway down a buff hallway before he tripped over nothing and spread-eagled. Max said the spells and tossed powder and the round man who'd tripped Misch appeared. Max knocked him out.
The guard with Patricia was visible, tall and straight standing.
"They've only got two cloaks," said Patricia, who was tied in a claw-footed chair. "They found them up in the attic when Richard was snooping around last month. Since then they've been smuggling Oscar Boothrod's notes and papers down here, hoping to get the formula for making more cloaks."
"All we've unearthed so far," admitted the unarmed guard, "is nearly ninteen volumes of old Oscar's pornographic memoirs."
Max said, "Your cloaks are neutralized for good, meaning no more invisible vigilante raids. I think you better spend the rest of tonight moving out."
"Dick's got a lease."
"Or maybe Patricia will come up with a kidnapping charge."
"She was poking in the attic and Dick brought her here to see how much she knew about us, and about old Oscar."
"Move," said Max. He untied Pat, helped her get her arms and legs working.
Misch had gone back outside, after trussing up the other Comstock:2 member with three hand-painted ties and a paisley belt. Ogden Boothrod was talking to him near the bus. The Fatal Glass Of Beer were tuning instruments in the arbor. Jillian and Ollie were examining the motorcycles.
"Mr. Boothrod has invited us all to dinner," announced Misch. "He says the food will be really terrible."
Max led Patricia over to Jillian and Ollie. Putting his arm around his wife's shoulders, he asked, "Want to stay?"
"No," said Jillian. "As a cook he's beyond help."
They said good night and walked away from the spires and towers of the mansion.