"Ian Ross, get this straight. I'm not going to a backstreet abortionist. I'm going to have the baby. I don't want to marry you, but . . . "
"That's good. I don't want to marry you either." And he walked past her as if she had suddenly vanished.
When Ross came on a group of three men students in gowns, one greeted him enthusiastically, one unenthusiastically, and one walked away.
"Ian, what about Veronica?" said the first eagerly.
"Well, what about Veronica?"
"Will she do it?"
Ross clapped his hand dramatically to his forehead.
"Sorry, Eric . . . "
"You didn't ask her?"
"No, I asked her. You made me promise, and I always keep my promises, except to girls."
"And what did she say?"
"She said she'd think about it."
"And after she thought about it?"
"She wrote me a letter."
Erie frowned, puzzled. "She was going to write you a letter?"
"She did write me a letter. I got it this morning."
"Well, what did she say?"
"I forgot to read it." '
The other student laughed. Eric went pink. "Ian, will you stop being a poseur? What did she say?"
"I told you, I didn't read it."
"Well, will you bloody well go and read it?"
"No, I bloody well will not."
Ross strode on.
Fletcher was appalled. What kind of creature was this?
He himself had always been nervous, self-conscious, tentative. This Ian Ross he could not begin to understand.
For a short time he had thought he had merged with Ian Ross because of similarities between them. It could not have been conscious or deliberate, because he had been aware only very indirectly of the existence of Ian Ross.
But this lout and he had nothing except the most superficial things in common.
How was it possible to burn two bills without even opening them? Sooner or later Ross must be called to account. And it was more incredible that a youth of nineteen or so could receive letters from two girls, check merely their names, and put them aside unread.
A tutor stopped to speak to Ross. "Mr. Ross, if you have a moment . . . " He was very courteous, very vague.
"Yes, Mr. Beecham? How's your pills?"
The mild tutor went fiery red, and swept on without another word.
Ross, although there was no one to see or hear, laughed loudly.
Without further incident, Ross arrived at a lecture on Balzac. He sat quietly and apparently listened throughout.
At the end of this lecture Ross sauntered to another lecture room, apparently with a purpose. As the students came out many of them greeted him, some ignored him because they didn't know him, and some simply ignored him.
He stepped forward. "Hello, Anita."
Fletcher was surprised at the warmth of his pleasure in seeing her again -- his pleasure, not Ross's.
"Hello," said the girl without enthusiasm, and moved to pass him.
"Why so cold, Virgin?" Ross said. "I've forgiven you."
"For not jumping into bed with you?" Again she tried to pass.
"That and other things. What happened to you yesterday morning after the spook session?"
"I stayed to talk to Mr. Fletcher."
"That zombie? At least your virginity would be safe with him."
"Will you stop talking like that?" she said irritably. "And stop calling me Virgin."
"Why, Virgin? Is the form of address anachronistic? Are you like the girl Virginia who was called Virgin for short, but not for long?"
As she made a really determined effort to get by, and he had to grab her arm to stop her, he went on more placatingly: "All right, I'll call you Maiden. That's anachronistic too, but in a more tactful way. How did you get on with the zombie, Maiden?"
"You saw the results."
"I don't mean that, Maiden. How did you get on with him? Did he put his hand on your knee?"
"Why don't you change the record sometimes?" she said wearily. "You're not even amusing. You're too predictable."
"Because I'm talking about sex, you mean? It was your idea to vamp the zombie, Maiden. Was it a success? Did he invite you back to his web?"
Anita seemed to make up her mind. "Listen, Ross," she said grimly. "You're already in trouble with the Principal. And you don't really want to be kicked out, do you? You'd make a show of it as usual, like the time when they were going to give you the MacPherson Prize and you pretended you'd forgotten about it and didn't turn up."
She was not without weapons against Ross, it seemed. He retorted angrily: "I won that prize. It was mine."
"But when you didn't turn up and later sent a puerile message that you'd been detained by pressing business, jumping on grapes at the Principal's vineyard, the committee decided to withdraw the award. And you were mad as fire."
"I won it! It was mine!"
She laughed with genuine scom. "Ross, you're a spoiled kid. I didn't know it at first. But I know it now. Your secret is out."
He took a step toward her, murder in his eyes.
"Now don't try that," she said softly. "Never try to be a tough guy with me, Ross. I'm not rotten like you, and I'm certainly not vindictive, but if anyone ever really annoyed me, really made me loathe him, I think I'd hound him to his grave."
It was then that a tiny youth in a white coat, who must be at least sixteen but didn't look it, appeared at Ross's shoulder and said breathlessly: "Are you Ian Ross?"
Ross recovered instantly. "I have that honor, infant."
"Mr. Baudaker wants you."
"But I don't want him."
The youth shrugged indifferently. "Anyway, I've told you. Can you tell me where to find a girl called Anita Somerset?"
Ross leered. "I could, if you were to make it worth my while."
"Where is she, then?"
"Right here, infant, inflaming us both to fiery passion with her presence."
"Oh . . . are you Anita Somerset?"
The girl smiled at him to compensate for Ross. "Yes."
"Mr. Baudaker wants you too."
He turned on his heel and ran off, whistling.
"Come and have a pint of wallop with me," said Ross.
"But Baudaker -- "
"You don't imagine I come running when bald little elderly lab office-boys summon me?"
"No, I don't," said Anita, suddenly amused. "You couldn't go and see Baudaker now, could you, Ross? It wouldn't be in your part. You only took part in that session the night before last because nobody wanted you, yet you did behave, you did work, because nobody expected you to, and you didn't sneer over the results because we were all waiting for it. Don't you realize, Ross, you're ten times more predictable than anybody else?"
"Nobody's predictable. Let's go and see what Baudaker wants."
"That's what I mean," said Anita tranquilly.
"Dead?" said Anita blankly. "Already?"
"She's a clever girl," said Ross dispassionately. "She knew he was going to die. So did we all. He carried it around with him."
"Be quiet," said Anita impatiently. "How did it happen?"
Baudaker had a copy of the first edition of the evening paper. A paragraph low on the front page, headed DEATH FALL, was marked:
John Fletcher (43), 24 Beechview Gardens, has been found dead in a disused basement well at his lodgings. According to the police statement, an iron gate leading to the basement well had given way as Fletcher leaned on it, and he pitched over the edge, missing the steps, landing on his head. There are no suspicious circumstances.
"I'm going there to find out about it," said Anita.
"Find out what, Miss Somerset?" Baudaker asked.
"I'm going to that house. What's the address? -- 24 Beechview Gardens. That's not far from here."
"Such a tragedy," Baudaker sighed. "His ESP rating, under controlled conditions, was phenomenal. If only he had cooperated in a really exhaustive series of
tests . . . "
"I know," said Anita. "Now please excuse me."
"If you're really going there," said Ross, "I'll come with you."
"Please don't bother."
"It's no bother, Maiden."
As they walked, he spoke less provocatively than usual. His interest had been caught and he did not want the episode to close, as so many episodes in his life had closed, because of something said by someone else or himself that made it impossible to go on.
"Except for about five minutes with you, Maiden, he had a totally negative score. That must mean something."
"Of course it means something. It means he had to be wrong. Consciously or unconsciously, he made all his answers wrong. And he could do that only by knowing the right answers."
"I don't know about that . . . "
"It's the only way. You understand mathematics, don't you?"
"Through a glass, darkly."
"Well, don't argue about this. Obviously, if a man can manage to be always wrong, it can't be due to chance."
"Obviously."
"All right, then . . . just don't argue about obvious things. And then, suddenly, Fletcher was able to score fantastic positive results with me alone."
"Of course," said Ross, "we only have your word for that."
"What?"
"By arrangement, there was no tape recorder, no spyhole, no outside check. You took down the figures . . . "
She said coldly: "If you think I'd falsify results . . . "
"I don't. Did anyone suggest anything of the sort? But remember, if anything has to be proved, seven people spent umpteen hours with Fletcher and demonstrated beyond doubt that he could score zero per cent with unfailing regularity. Only in a private test with you, carried out and scored by you, were there positive results."
"I see what you mean," Anita said.
They found the house and looked at the iron gate. A new padlock had been fitted on it. Anita peered over reluctantly, aware that Fletcher's body would no longer be there, yet a little scared it might be.
As she rang the bell, Anita said: "Let me do the talking."
"Certainly, Maiden. Next to your pale white body, the thing I love best about you is your seductive voice."
"Oh, shut up."
The door was opened by a pretty girl who might have been sixteen, but was not.
"We're friends of John Fletcher," said Anlta.
"Oh? I didn't think he had any friends, but I'm glad to know I was wrong. Do come in."
Fletcher took immense pleasure in sight and sound of Judy. First, she had not fallen from the balcony to her death. Second, her composure, her intelligent elegance in a plain print dress, no makeup and no nylons showed that she had acquired discrimination quite beyond the Judy of old. Third, what she said indicated she was at least a normal thirteen-year-old if not a precocious thirteen-year-old.
"The police have gone," said Judy. "But they asked us to let them know if anybody inquired about Mr. Fletcher. It seems hardly anything is known about him . . . are you relatives, by any chance?"
"No . . . I'm Anita Somerset and this is Ian Ross. We met Mr. Fletcher through experiments at the university."
"Experiments?" Judy, leading them upstairs to Fletcher's room, paused on the stairs to look back.
"Yes."
She recollected herself. "Oh, I'm Judy MacDonald. My mother is the landlady. She had to go to the police station again."
"Yes, of course."
Ross, who had restrained himself so far, started to say something, but Anita, suspicious in advance of anything he might choose to say, dug him in the ribs with her elbow.
Perhaps, Fletcher thought wonderingly, he had achieved something worth-while after all, in death if not in life. How it was possible by briefly inhabiting Judy's mind to effect such a transformation he had no idea, but then he had no idea either how he managed to jump from mind to mind.
They entered Fletcher's room. It was much as he had left it. The police had put everything back as they found it.
"This is where he lived, said Judy. "The furniture isn't his, but everything else is. There's a gold watch, typewriter, radio, clothes. Do you know anyone who should get them?"
"I'm afraid not," said. Anita. She stood irresolute, not knowing how to go on. Then she said: "Fletcher's definitely dead, I suppose? I mean, there's no doubt?"
The quizzical glance Judy shot at her meant more to Fletcher than it did to Anita or Ross. To them it only indicated her surprise that people who had read of a man's death in the newspaper should doubt that he was dead. To Fletcher it indicated speculation if Anita suspected what she knew -- that Fletcher had not died when his body did.
"Well, in the fall his brain was smashed, his neck was broken and his back was broken, all instantly," Judy said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't know how anyone can be much deader than that."
Anita shuddered. But she went on steadily: "That's part of what I mean. He must have been pretty badly smashed up. Could there be any mistake in identification?"
"No," said Judy firmly. "His face wasn't injured."
"There's no question of suicide, I suppose?" said Ross casually.
Again that quizzical glance. "Why should there be? Mr. Fletcher apparently leaned on the gate, and for some reason it had been unfastened -- probably by children. The police at first hinted my mother should have done something about that gate, but then they looked around and merely suggested it should be padlocked, since it's never used now. Every building in the street has a basement well like ours, some in use, some not. There are stone steps leading down, with a railing on the street side and not on the other. Some have gates like ours, some have none. Children play on the stairs, and sometimes fall. My mother said she never heard of anyone being seriously hurt before. This is old property . . . "
"But the gate was normally shut," Ross persisted.
"Yes, with a bolt. No padlock. It couldn't open by itself. And there's a spring to shut the gate if it's opened. This morning the gate was shut but not bolted."
"Who found the body?"
"I did. About seven. I was thirsty and went down for the milk."
Judy was perfectly composed. The night before she must have felt Fletcher leave her. To discover the body on her return to the house would have prompted many awkward questions. So she had sensibly waited until a reasonable opportunity of finding the body presented itself.
"You can't tell me anyone who should know about Mr. Fletcher?" she said.
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