All that was necessary now was to compose a code message in a dream for Dunn. That was all—except for the necessity of avoiding trouble with the censors.
Macklin thumbed through the censorship code. There were innumerable and fantastic restrictions. No kiss could last longer than two seconds. Kissing was forbidden in Japan. No dreams involving light-vibration could be used in a place named Spodgerblu, in the Coal Sack. Dreams must hew strictly to the psychology of the individual—Macklin picked up Dunn’s card and studied it. Could he find a loophole? An apparent reason for running a test-dream sequence? And one that would serve his purpose? Let’s see—There was a new entry on the card, since Macklin had last read it. “Dunn recently refused an offer of fifty thousand dollars to appear in a motion picture.”
So? And Dunn’s chief trait seemed to be avarice. That didn’t jibe. It was a question—just the question Macklin needed. Had Dunn’s psychology pattern been altered?
He picked up the dictaphone mouthpiece. “Insert sequence on Jerome Dunn. Test scene. Send back to writer after . . . uh . . . preview.” Macklin paused, suddenly struck by the madness of the situation in which he found himself. Writing dreams for a magician. He tightened his lips and went on thoughtfully:
“An Inquisition scene. No. Change that.” It wouldn’t jibe with Dunn’s background. “Make it a Black Mass. Satan questioning Dunn.” He went on more easily as he got into the swing of the work. One thought troubled him: how could he convey the message? How could he bring in a reference to himself without running afoul of the censors?
By symbolism, of course!
What symbol—hm-m-m! A postdated check for five thousand dollars. That would almost certainly represent Macklin in Dunn’s mind. Yeah. Well, then—
It was done at last. Not only the test sequence, but the complete dream. It was a lovely thing, based soundly on Dunn’s inner self, involving an earthquake that crumbled all the banks in Hollywood and sent tons of gold and bills showering out in the streets, where Dunn himself; the only person awake at the time, was scampering about busily with a wheelbarrow. He carried the treasure load by load to his cellar. With a touch of malice, Macklin turned the money into pebbles and overdue bills. It was a fear-dream.
He asked Broscop for an opinion, and the leprechaun listened to the play-back and chuckled. “You’re catching on. That’s fine, Timothy lad.”
“The censors won’t—”
“They won’t. A few minor changes, though, maybe. Better cut out the reference to that gold tooth. Teeth are a bit risky. Otherwise fine. Shoot the stuff down to a producer now, and that’s all there is to it.”
The phone rang. Macklin picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“I’m sending up another file card on Jerome Dunn—it was mislaid. You had his docket this morning, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
The desk popped. A card lay there, covered with typewritten notes. Macklin scanned it.
“Add history Jerome Dunn,” it said. “Subheading ‘Slipshod Magic.’ Dunn accidentally mixed arsenic in a love-potion for a man named—” There was much more of the same. But several items were of especial interest.
“Trans-spatial work very sloppy. Dunn has lost six people through carelessly prepared scrips. (He uses the parchment scrip method.) One Michael MacBryan, ticketed for a visit to Heaven, landed in the Egyptian Hell through error. Dunn learned of his mistake but refused to rescue MacBryan, afraid of the consequences. Feared MacBryan might sue him. Five other similar cases. One landed in Davy Jones’ Locker—”
“What’s the matter?” Broscop asked.
Macklin gulped. “Nothing. Just a slight kick in the face. From a rat. It’s bad enough to make mistakes, but a guy ought to try and fix ’em up afterward, oughtn’t he?”
“Huh?”
“Let it lay. I’m not feeling so good, pal. What about some more Hellfire cocktails?”
“Well,” the leprechaun said doubtfully, “all right. But you know what happened last time.”
“It won’t happen again,” Macklin swore—and he was right.
It didn’t happen again. There was no trouble. Seated in a bar, Macklin steadily drank Hellfire cocktails till he floated up to the ceiling and passed out. Some time later, he awoke in his own bed in the studio dormitory. He had a hangover, as usual, but breakfast and black coffee remedied the trouble.
He was anxious to get to his office. On his desk there was a note of commendation from Old Growly himself, together with a transcribed document. Broscop laughed delightedly.
“See? It says ‘Good Work.’ And it’s initialed O. G. You’ll be a director yet, Timothy me lad.”
“Sure,” Macklin said, absently lighting a cigarette. He was studying the other paper. It was the report on the test scene he had inserted in Dunn’s dream.
He sent for the magician’s card file billet, and then brooded over the report. Broscop tiptoed into his own office. Macklin’s eyes narrowed; he blew smoke through his nostrils and cursed under his breath. The report was not encouraging.
It was in the form of a running dialogue between Satan and Dunn. Dunn, of course, had supplied the answers himself, but Macklin had written the questions—
Q. (by Satan). “You promised to serve me?”
A. (by Dunn). “That’s right.”
Q. “You sold me your soul in return for magical powers?”
A. “Sure. So I could get money. I love money. It’s wonderful.”
Q. “You have not changed your mind?”
A. “Who says so?”
Q. “You were offered a large sum to star in a motion picture, and yet you refused it. Why?” A. “You ought to know. If that film ever showed in St. Louis or Chicago, the police would try to extradite me. My . . . uh . . . magic didn’t work so well then.”
Q. “Do you value money more than loyalty or honesty?” A. “That’s plain silly.”
Q. “If you failed to deliver the goods to a customer, would you refund the money?”
A. “Well—if it came to court—I suppose—”
Q. “If one of your customers got in trouble—”
A. “I know what you mean. The poison in those love potions. Just an accident. That was all. And those chaps who landed in the wrong dimensions. Well, I hadn’t inscribed the parchments exactly right, but—so what? If I’d brought those guys back to Earth, they might have sued me. Or insisted on their money back. It’s my money and nobody can have it but me.”
Q. “How about a postdated check for five thousand dollars?”
A. “Uh—I remember. Well, that makes seven. I guess he had the wrong scrip. I dunno where he is now. I haven’t time to look for him in every dimension. Besides, I can’t cash the check for three days yet. And if Macklin came back and talked, it’d hurt my reputation. People would stop paying me money. That would never do.”
The catechism continued, but there was a little else to be learned. Macklin sat back with a sigh. He was right. Jerome Dunn was a dirty, double-crossing rat. The magician realized what he’d done, and simply refused to remedy matters.
Then—Macklin’s eyes hardened—sterner measures were justified. Dunn deserved a severe kick in the teeth. The only trouble was the obvious difficulty of delivering it.
Item, Macklin wanted to get back to Earth.
Item, he had lost his return ticket.
Ergo, he had to get another.
How?
Macklin began to sing softly under his breath. A slow smile broadened on his face.
“We’ve a first-class assortment of magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There’s no cheaper house in the trade—”
He jumped up and fled into Broscop’s office. The leprechaun was cursing the dictaphone.
“Broscop!”
“Whup! Oh, it’s you. Don’t jump out on a leprechaun like that. What’s wrong?”
“Listen, you say insubordination here is
punished in only one way?”
“Sure—a trip to Hell. Why?”
“Whereabouts in Hell? That tower?”
“The tallest tower of Dis. Always.”
“Suppose I punched Old Growly in the nose. Would I be sent there?”
“You would,” Broscop said, chuckling.
“No other place?”
“The tower is the only place. Why? Hey! You don’t intend to—”
“Not yet, anyway,” Macklin said, and returned to his office. There he used the phone.
“Information on souls sold to Satan? Yes, sir. I’ll send the volume up immediately.”
It was a large book, profusely and unpleasantly illustrated. Presently Macklin found the information he wanted.
“When Satan buys a soul, he holds it as security. It is preserved in the Ammonia Crater, frozen stiff, until the death of the original owner. When that happens, the life force enters the soul, and the soul enters into its period of torment.”
Another item said, “Such souls are perfect replicas of the body, except that they are dead-white, like ectoplasm. The Ammonia Crater is always well guarded, for men have been known to attempt to recapture their souls. None have succeeded. Satan objects to being cheated. If a man could reclaim his soul from the Ammonia Crater, he could, of course, enter into Heaven in his due time. But—”
Macklin grinned ferociously. He turned to the dictaphone, slid a roll on to the cylinder, and began to dictate.
“Dream for Jerome Dunn. Set it in Hell. On top of the tallest tower of Dis. Fake Dunn’s soul. Or—better yet. Start with the Ammonia Crater.” He talked fast, ending at last, “Hurry this up. I want to see the rushes before it goes out.”
Two hours later Macklin sat in a projection room, little Broscop by his side. The leprechaun was excited.
“Why, you’ve got dream-credit! Swell! And approved by the board of censors! Timothy me lad, you’ll make your mark in this world—”
Macklin didn’t answer. He was watching the drama on the screen unfold.
It started with a montage of Hell—clever trick technical stuff. Then there was a fade-in to the Ammonia Crater, where stacks of frozen souls were piled up in rows. The camera panned down to a soul at the end of a row. It was milky white, but otherwise was a perfect double for Jerome Dunn.
Over the edge of the crater a tongue of flame licked. It touched the frozen soul, bathing it in fire. The soul stirred, visibly thawing. And then, abruptly, it leaped up and sprang high into the air. Over Hell it soared, heading for the black city Dis.
It came to rest on the summit of the tallest tower. And there it lay, motionless, panting a little.
The scene changed, becoming more conventional. It turned into an ordinary nightmare. But threaded through the dream, like a motif, were shots of Dunn’s soul resting on the dark tower of Dis.
“Bait,” Macklin said silently. “Broscop, when will that dream go out?”
The leprechaun called a question. From the projection room a voice answered.
“There’s a print being rushed to Earth now. It’s due for a premiere tonight.”
“O.K.,” Macklin said. He turned and gripped Broscop’s hand.
“Good luck. In case—anything happens. You’re a swell guy, Broscop, and thanks for everything.”
“But . . . but Timothy, me lad—”
Macklin was already gone. He went directly to Old Growly’s office. The horned creature was squatting behind his desk, smoking a gigantic cigar.
He looked up. “You! I’m busy. Get out. Phone for an appointment.”
Macklin’s answer was audible but inarticulate. He vibrated his tongue rapidly between his lips.
Old Growly bellowed like a bull. He sprang up, circled the desk, and faced Macklin. That was what the man had been awaiting.
“You crawling little sea-slug! By Baal and Beelzebub, I’ll not have insubordination in my own depar—”
“Why not send me to Hell?” Macklin suggested.
“Uk . . . uk . . . I will! I’ll give you a month! Two months! X—”
“That’s the worst you can do? It is? Well, then!” Macklin smiled happily, poised himself, and rammed a hard fist into Old Growly’s unpleasant face. He felt a delightful thwack against his knuckles, and his eardrums were almost pierced by the agonized yell Old Growly let out. Macklin stepped back and waited, ready for attack.
No attack came. Old Growly staggered back to his desk, clutching at a pulped nose, and furiously rang bells and pushed buttons. He howled commands into the dictagraph.
“Get the studio police! Quick! There’s a maniac in my office! A homicidal maniac! Hurry—”
There was a movement behind Macklin; he felt his arms seized. Old Growly sank into his chair, panting. His gaze dripped vitriol.
“Five years in Hell for you.
Five long years,” he sputtered. “Take him away. Get him out of my sight!” His voice rose to a shrill scream. “Take him away before he wrecks the joint!”
Macklin was urged toward the door. He waved blithely at Old Growly.
“So long, pal. Hell will be a rest cure after this abattoir. Look it up,” he advised. “You’ll find a dictionary in the library, if you know how to read.”
The door closed. Someone said, “Five years in Hell is a long stretch, buddy. I feel sorry for you.”
Macklin yawned—
Even fifteen hours in Hell was unpleasant. The tower of Dis kept getting hotter. It burned Macklin’s feet. The parched, acrid air made him thirsty. He paced back and forth, scowling, wondering if his plans would go wrong.
Time dragged on, slowing down by visible degrees. The tides of flame raced across the vault of the sky. Faint noises drifted up from below. Five years in Hell—ugh! Macklin was beginning to be worried.
If he had failed—
No, he couldn’t have failed. Psychology couldn’t be wrong. Logic was logic. X plus x equals 2x. On the other hand, x times x equals x2. Maybe he had added when he should have multiplied.
But the bait he had used was sure-fire. Dunn had dreamed that his soul—in pawn to Satan—had escaped from the Ammonia Crater and was hiding atop this very tower. He wouldn’t scent a trap. He’d want to reclaim his soul and cheat Satan of his bargain.
On the other hand, Dunn might believe that the dream was simply so much guff—a wish-fulfillment vision. Could be. Yet, even if Dunn consciously thought that, he would also realize that there was a chance that the vision might be founded in fact. It would cost nothing to investigate. Dunn would sense no danger. Why should he? He would see the bait, hesitate—and then walk into the trap.
Perhaps—
Twenty feet away a pillar of black smoke sprang into existence. Macklin saw it from the corner of his eye. His breath catching in his throat, he whirled and raced toward the inky cloud. Hidden in the darkness, he could make out the vague outline of a man. The smoke cleared—
Dunn!
The magician stood motionless, a bit of charred parchment visible in his right hand. In his left he held a fresh, unburned roll. The beady little eyes were alight with greed. But before they could blink away the smoke, Macklin acted. He swooped on the startled magician like a vulture and tore the parchment roll from his hand.
Dunn said, “Hey! What—”
Macklin’s cigarette lighter was ready. “I’m just letting the punishment fit the crime, pal,” he snapped—and touched flame to the scrip. Dunn yelled and leaped forward, too late. A burst of greasy black smoke billowed out.
The magician’s voice seemed to fade into immeasurable distance. Macklin opened his eyes, which stung painfully. He was back in Dunn’s parlor, in exactly the same spot where he had burned the first parchment days before.
The room was otherwise empty. Morning sunlight slanted in through the windows. Distantly Macklin heard the hum of traffic from Hollywood Boulevard.
He pocketed the cigarette lighter. “Dunn!” he called softly.
No answer.
“Dunn!”
The disappearance of Jerome Dunn, Consulting Sorcerer, caused a slight tumult in Hollywood circles for a few weeks, but soon the matter was forgotten. Events moved on as usual. Betsi Gardner, the movie columnist, ran a brief squib in her paper, and Timothy Macklin returned to work, feeling vastly refreshed by his vacation. “Just ran down to Mexico for a while,” he explained airily. “What’s on the docket? Oh, I feel fine now, I just got a bit stale, I guess.”
His career thereafter was an enviable one. Eventually he married Betsi Gardner. Five years exactly after Macklin’s return from Hell, he woke up in the night yelling at the top of his voice.
Betsi snapped on the light. “Tim! What’s the matter?” Macklin stared around wildly. “Huh? Oh. I—nothing, honey. Just a bad dream.”
“It must have been a nightmare!”
“Yeah . . . say, what’s the date?”
Betsi told him. Macklin looked thoughtful.
“Just five years to the day. So he’s been in Hell ever since—and now he’s back in my old job.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Nothing—on Earth,” Macklin said cryptically. “I just got a . . . well, a message from an old friend. Go to sleep, Betsi.”
“Sure you’re all right?”
“Well—yeah. Quite all right. Only I expect I’ll do a good deal of dreaming from now on. Still—sticks and stones will break my bones, but dreams will never hurt me.”
Betsi lay back and closed her eyes, rather puzzled. She drifted back into slumber . . . then, startled, she awoke. Her husband was softly singing himself to sleep:
“If anyone anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!”
THE END.
THE BURNING CORPSE
Red Murder Lust Runs Riot When Simon Gaunt—Long Dead—Writes the Name of His Murderer in Flames
CHAPTER I
“Flame Is Life”
SIMON GAUNT worshipped fire. His mania was purely pagan; had he lived in ancient Britain, he might have been a Druid, tending the sacred altar flame. He loved fire as he would have loved a woman, and, I thought sometimes, it was the only thing that kept him alive.
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