“Huh?”
“You know, I’m on the auditing committee for the state committee of my party. I looked up the name of his secretary where I thought I had seen it. It was there all right. His secretary, a chap by the name of Mathias, was down for a whopping big contribution to the governor’s personal campaign fund.”
We did not have any more time to talk just then, as the cab had pulled up at my place. Dr. Biddle was there before us and had already started his preparations. He had set up a little crystal pavilion, about ten feet square, to work in. The entire lot was blocked off from spectators on the front by an impalpable screen. Jedson warned me not to touch it.
I must say he worked without any of the usual hocus pocus. He simply greeted us and entered the pavilion, where he sat down on a chair and took a loose-leaf notebook from a pocket and commenced to read. Jedson says he used several pieces of paraphernalia too. If so, I didn’t see them. He worked with his clothes on.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. Gradually the walls of the shed became cloudy, so that everything inside was indistinct. It was about then that I became aware there was something else in the pavilion besides Biddle. I could not see clearly what it was, and, to tell the truth, I didn’t want to.
We could not hear anything that was said on the inside, but there was an argument going on—that was evident. Biddle stood up and began sawing the air with his hands. The thing threw back its head and laughed. At that Biddle threw a worried look in our direction and made a quick gesture with his right hand. The walls of the pavilion became opaque at once and we didn’t see any more.
About five minutes later Biddle walked out of his workroom, which promptly disappeared behind him. He was a sight—his hair all mussed, sweat dripping from his face, and his collar wrinkled and limp. Worse than that, his aplomb was shaken.
“Well?” said Jedson.
“There is nothing to be done about it, Mr. Jedson—nothing at all.”
“Nothing you can do about it, eh?”
He stiffened a bit at this. “Nothing anyone can do about it, gentlemen. Give it up. Forget about it. That is my advice.”
Jedson said nothing, just looked at him speculatively. I kept quiet. Biddle was beginning to regain his self-possession. He straightened his hat, adjusted his necktie, and added, “I must return to my office. The survey fee will be five hundred dollars.”
I was stonkered speechless at the barefaced gall of the man, but Jedson acted as if he hadn’t understood him. “No doubt it would be,” he observed. “Too bad you didn’t earn it. I’m sorry.”
Biddle turned red, but preserved his urbanity. “Apparently you misunderstood me, sir. Under the agreement I have signed with Mr. Ditworth, thaumaturgists approved by the association are not permitted to offer free consultation. It lowers the standards of the profession. The fee I mentioned is the minimum fee for a magician of my classification, irrespective of services rendered.”
“I see,” Jedson answered calmly; “that’s what it costs to step inside your office. But you didn’t tell us that, so it doesn’t apply. As for Mr. Ditworth, an agreement you sign with him does not bind us in any way. I advise you to return to your office and reread our contract. We owe you nothing.”
I thought this time that Biddle would lose his temper, but all he answered was, “I shan’t bandy words with you. You will hear from me later.” He vanished then without so much as a “by-your-leave.”
I heard a snicker behind me and whirled around, ready to bite somebody’s head off. I had had an upsetting day and didn’t like to be laughed at behind my back. There was a young chap there, about my own age. “Who are you, and what are you laughing at?” I snapped. ‘This is private property.”
“Sorry, bud,” he apologized with a disarming grin. “I wasn’t laughing at you; I was laughing at the stuffed shirt. Your friend ticked him off properly.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Jedson.
“Me? I guess I owe you an explanation. You see, I’m in the business myself—”
“Building?”
“No—magic. Here’s my card.” He handed it to Jedson, who glanced at it and passed it on to me. It read:
JACK BODIE
LICENSED MAGICIAN, 1ST CLASS
TELEPHONE CREST 3840
“You see, I heard a rumor in the Half World that one of the big shots was going to do a hard one here today. I just stopped in to see the fun. But how did you happen to pick a false alarm like Biddle? He’s not up to this sort of thing.”
Jedson reached over and took the card back. “Where did you take your training, Mr. Bodie?”
“Huh? I took my bachelor’s degree at Harvard and finished up postgraduate at Chicago. But that’s not important; my old man taught me everything I know, but he insisted on my going to college because he said a magician can’t get a decent job these days without a degree. He was right.”
“Do you think you could handle this job?” I asked.
“Probably not, but I wouldn’t have made the fool of myself that Biddle did. Look here—you want to find somebody who can do this job?”
“Naturally,” I said. “What do you think we’re here for?”
“Well, you’ve gone about it the wrong way. Biddle’s got a reputation simply because he’s studied at Heidelberg and Vienna. That doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll bet it never occurred to you to look up an old-style witch for the job.”
Jedson answered this one. “That’s not quite true. I inquired around among my friends in the business, but didn’t find anyone who was willing to take it on. But I’m willing to learn; whom do you suggest?”
“Do you know Mrs. Amanda Todd Jennings? Lives over in the old part of town, beyond the Congregational cemetery.”
“Jennings . . . Jennings. Hm-m-m—no, can’t say that I do. Wait a minute! Is she the old girl they call Granny Jennings? Wears Queen Mary hats and does her own marketing?”
“That’s the one.”
“But she’s not a witch; she’s a fortuneteller.”
“That’s what you think. She’s not in regular commercial practice, it’s true, being ninety years older than Santy Claus, and feeble to boot. But she’s got more magic in her little finger than you’ll find in Solomon’s Book.”
Jedson looked at me. I nodded, and he said: “Do you think you could get her to attempt this case?”
“Well, I think she might do it, if she liked you.”
“What arrangement do you want?” I asked. “Is 10 percent satisfactory?”
He seemed rather put out at this. “Hell,” he said, “I couldn’t take a cut; she’s been good to me all my life.”
“If the tip is good, it’s worth paying for,” I insisted.
“Oh, forget it. Maybe you boys will have some work in my line someday. That’s enough.”
Pretty soon we were off again, without Bodie. He was tied up elsewhere, but promised to let Mrs. Jennings know that we were coming.
The place wasn’t too hard to find. It was an old street, arched over with elms, and the house was a one-story cottage, set well back. The veranda had a lot of that old scroll-saw gingerbread. The yard was not very well taken care of, but there was a lovely old climbing rose arched over the steps.
Jedson gave a twist to the hand bell set in the door, and we waited for several minutes. I studied the colored-glass triangles set in the door’s side panels and wondered if there was anyone left who could do that sort of work.
Then she let us in. She really was something incredible. She was so tiny that I found myself staring down at the crown of her head, and noting that the clean pink scalp showed plainly through the scant, neat threads of hair. She couldn’t have weighed seventy pounds dressed for the street, but stood proudly erect in lavender alpaca and white collar, and sized us up with lively black eyes that would have fitted Catherine the Great or Calamity Jane.
“Good morning to you,” she said. “Come in.”
She led us through a little hall, between beaded portieres, sai
d, “Scat, Seraphin!” to a cat on a chair, and sat us down in her parlor. The cat jumped down, walked away with an unhurried dignity, then sat down, tucked his tail neatly around his carefully placed feet, and stared at us with the same calm appraisal as his mistress.
“My boy Jack told me that you were coming,” she began. “You are Mr. Fraser and you are Mr. Jedson,” getting us sorted out correctly. It was not a question; it was a statement. “You want your futures read, I suppose. What method do you prefer—your palms, the stars, the sticks?”
I was about to correct her misapprehension when Jedson cut in ahead of me. “I think we’d best leave the method up to you, Mrs. Jennings.”
“All right, we’ll make it tea leaves then. I’ll put the kettle on; ’t’won’t take a minute.” She bustled out. We could hear her in the kitchen, her light footsteps clicking on the linoleum, utensils scraping and clattering in a busy, pleasant disharmony.
When she returned I said, “I hope we aren’t putting you out, Mrs. Jennings.”
“Not a bit of it,” she assured me. “I like a cup of tea in the morning; it does a body comfort. I just had to set a love philter off the fire—that’s what took me so long.”
“I’m sorry—”
“ ’T’won’t hurt it to wait.”
“The Zekerboni formula?” Jedson inquired.
“My goodness gracious, no!” She was plainly upset by the suggestion. “I wouldn’t kill all those harmless little creatures. Hares and swallows and doves—the very idea! I don’t know what Pierre Mora was thinking about when he set that recipe down. I’d like to box his ears!
“No, I use Emula campana, orange, and ambergris. It’s just as effective.”
Jedson then asked if she had ever tried the juice of vervain. She looked closely into his face before replying, “You have the sight yourself, son. Am I not right?”
“A little, mother,” he answered soberly, “a little, perhaps.”
“It will grow. Mind how you use it. As for vervain, it is efficacious, as you know.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler?”
“Of course it would. But if that easy a method became generally known, anyone and everyone would be making it and using it promiscuously—a bad thing. And witches would starve for want of clients—perhaps a good thing!” She flicked up one white eyebrow. “But if it is simplicity you want, there is no need to bother even with vervain.
“Here—” she reached out and touched me on the hand. “ ‘Bestarberto corrumpit viscera ejus virilis’.”
That is as near as I can reproduce her words. I may have misquoted it.
But I had no time to think about the formula she had pronounced. I was fully occupied with the startling thing that had come over me. I was in love, ecstatically, deliriously in love—with Granny Jennings! I don’t mean that she suddenly looked like a beautiful young girl—she didn’t. I still saw her as a little, old, shriveled-up woman with the face of a shrewd monkey, and ancient enough to be my great-grandmother. It didn’t matter. She was she—the Helen that all men desire, the object of romantic adoration.
She smiled into my face with a smile that was warm and full of affectionate understanding. Everything was all right, and I was perfectly happy. Then she said, “I would not mock you, boy,” in a gentle voice, and touched my hand a second time while whispering something else.
At once it was all gone. She was just any nice old woman, the sort that would bake a cake for a grandson or sit up with a sick neighbor. Nothing was changed, and the cat had not even blinked. The romantic fascination was an emotionless memory. But I was poorer for the difference.
The kettle was boiling. She trotted out to attend to it, and returned shortly with a tray of tea things, a plate of seed cake, and thin slices of homemade bread spread with sweet butter.
When we had drunk a cup apiece with proper ceremony, she took Jedson’s cup from him and examined the dregs, “Not much money there,” she announced, “but you shan’t need much; it’s a fine full life.” She touched the little pool of tea with the tip of her spoon and sent tiny ripples across it. “Yes, you have the sight, and the need for understanding that should go with it, but I find you in business instead of pursuing the great art, or even the lesser arts. Why is that?”
Jedson shrugged his shoulders and answered half-apologetically, “There is work at hand that needs to be done. I do it.”
She nodded. “That is well. There is understanding to be gained in any job, and you will gain it. There is no hurry; time is long. When your own work comes you will know it and be ready for it. Let me see your cup,” she finished, turning to me.
I handed it to her. She studied it for a moment and said, “Well, you have not the clear sight such as your friend has, but you have the insight you need for your proper work. And more would make you dissatisfied, for I see money here. You will make much money, Archie Fraser.”
“Do you see any immediate setback in my business?” I said quickly.
“No. See for yourself.” She motioned toward the cup. I leaned forward and stared at it. For a matter of seconds it seemed as if I looked through the surface of the dregs into a living scene beyond. I recognized it readily enough. It was my own place of business, even to the scars on the driveway gateposts where clumsy truck drivers had clipped the corner too closely.
But there was a new annex wing on the east side of the lot, and there were two beautiful new five-ton dump trucks drawn up in the yard with my name painted on them!
While I watched I saw myself step out of the office door and go walking down the street. I was wearing a new hat, but the suit was the one I was wearing in Mrs. Jennings’ parlor, and so was the necktie—a plaid one from the tartan of my clan. I reached up and touched the original.
Mrs. Jennings said, “That will do for now,” and I found myself staring at the bottom of the teacup. “You have seen,” she went on, “your business need not worry you. As for love and marriage and children, sickness and health and death—let us look.” She touched the surface of the dregs with a fingertip; the tea leaves moved gently. She regarded them closely for a moment. Her brow puckered; she started to speak, apparently thought better of it, and looked again. Finally she said, “I do not fully understand this. It is not clear; my own shadow falls across it.”
“Perhaps I can see,” offered Jedson.
“Keep your peace!” She surprised me by speaking tartly, and placed her hand over the cup. She turned back to me with compassion in her eyes. “It is not clear. You have two possible futures. Let your head rule your heart, and do not fret your soul with that which cannot be. Then you will marry, have children, and be content.” With that she dismissed the matter, for she said at once to both of us, “You did not come here for divination; you came here for help of another sort.” Again it was a statement, not a question.
“What sort of help, Mother?” Jedson inquired.
“For this.” She shoved my cup under his nose.
He looked at it and answered, “Yes, that is true. Is there help?” I looked into the cup, too, but saw nothing but tea leaves.
She answered, “I think so. You should not have employed Biddle, but the mistake was natural. Let us be going.” Without further parley she fetched her gloves and purse and coat, perched a ridiculous old hat on the top of her head, and bustled us out of the house. There was no discussion of terms; it didn’t seem necessary.
When we got back to the lot her workroom was already up. It was not anything fancy like Biddle’s, but simply an old, square tent, like a gypsy’s pitch, with a peaked top and made in several gaudy colors. She pushed aside the shawl that closed the door and invited us inside.
It was gloomy, but she took a big candle, lighted it and stuck it in the middle of the floor. By its light she inscribed five circles on the ground—first a large one, then a somewhat smaller one in front of it. Then she drew two others, one on each side of the first and biggest circle. These were each big enough for a man to stand in, and she told us to do so. Finall
y she made one more circle off to one side and not more than a foot across.
I’ve never paid much attention to the methods of magicians, feeling about them the way Thomas Edison said he felt about mathematicians—when he wanted one he could hire one. But Mrs. Jennings was different. I wish I could understand the things she did—and why.
I know she drew a lot of cabalistic signs in the dirt within the circles. There were pentacles of various shapes, and some writing in what I judged to be Hebraic script, though Jedson says not. In particular there was, I remember, a sign like a long flat Z, with a loop in it, woven in and out of a Maltese cross. Two more candles were lighted and placed on each side of this.
Then she jammed the dagger—athame, Jedson called it—with which she had scribed the figures into the ground at the top of the big circle so hard that it quivered. It continued to vibrate the whole time.
She placed a little folding stool in the center of the biggest circle, sat down on it, drew out a small book, and commenced to read aloud in a voiceless whisper. I could not catch the words, and presume I was not meant to. This went on for some time. I glanced around and saw that the little circle off to one side was now occupied—by Seraphin, her cat. We had left him shut up in her house. He sat quietly, watching everything that took place with dignified interest.
Presently she shut the book and threw a pinch of powder into the flame of the largest candle. It flared up and threw out a great puff of smoke. I am not quite sure what happened next, as the smoke smarted my eyes and made me blink, besides which, Jedson says I don’t understand the purpose of fumigations at all. But I prefer to believe my eyes. Either that cloud of smoke solidified into a body or it covered up an entrance, one or the other.
Standing in the middle of the circle in front of Mrs. Jennings was a short, powerful man about four feet high or less. His shoulders were inches broader than mine, and his upper arms were thick as my thighs, knotted and bowed with muscle. He was dressed in a breechcloth, buskins, and a little hooded cap. His skin was hairless, but rough and earthy in texture. It was dull, lusterless. Everything about him was the same dull monotone, except his eyes, which shone green with repressed fury.
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