Smoke Ghost & Other Apparitions
Page 3
"The world is yours to do with as you will, save or tear to pieces." He answered fawningly, as the words automatically fitted themselves together into vaguely liturgical patterns. "I recognize that. I will praise, I will sacrifice. In smoke and soot and flame I will worship you for ever."
The voice did not answer. He looked up. There was only Miss Millick, deathly pale and swaying drunkenly. Her eyes were closed. He caught her as she wobbled toward him. His knees gave way under the added weight and they sank down together on the edge of the roof.
After a while she began to twitch. Small noises came from her throat, and her eyelids edged open.
"Come on, we'll do downstairs," he murmured jerkily, trying to draw her up. "You're feeling bad."
"I'm terribly dizzy," she whispered. "I must have fainted. I didn't eat enough. And then I'm so nervous lately, about the war and everything, I guess. Why, we're on the roof! Did you bring me up here to get some air? Or did I come up without knowing it? I'm awfully foolish. I used to walk in my sleep, my mother said."
As he helped her down the stairs, she turned and looked at him. "Why, Mr. Wran," she said, faintly, "you've got a big black smudge on your forehead. Here, let me get it of for you." Weakly she rubbed at it with her handkerchief. She started to sway again and he steadied her.
"No, I'll be all right," she said. "Only I feel cold. What happened, Mr. Wran? Did I have some sort of fainting spell?"
He told her it was something like that.
Later, riding home in an empty elevated car, he wondered how long he would be safe from the thing. It was a purely practical problem. He had no way of knowing, but instinct told him he had satisfied the brute for some time. Would it want more when it came again? Time enough to answer that question when it arose. It might be hard, he realized, to keep out of an insane asylum. With Helen and Ronny to protect, as well as himself, he would have to be careful and tight-lipped. He began to speculate as to how many other men and women had seen the thing or things like it.
The elevated slowed and lurched in a familiar fashion. He looked at the roofs again, near the curve. They seemed very ordinary, as if what made them impressive had gone away for a while.
THE POWER OF THE PUPPETS
I
A Plot Afoot?
"LOOK AT THE UGLY LITTLE THING for yourself then, and tell me if it's an ordinary puppet!" said Delia, her voice rising.
Curiously I examined the limp figure she had jerked out of her handbag and tossed on my desk. The blue-white doll-face grinned at me, revealing yellowish fangs. A tiny wig of black horse hair hung down as far as the empty eye-sockets. The cheeks were sunken. It was a gruesome piece of workmanship, with a strong flavor of the Middle Ages. The maker had evidently made a close study of stone gargoyles and stained-glass devils.
Attached to the hollow papier-mâché head was the black garment that gave the figure its appearance of limpness. Something after the fashion of a monk's robe, it had a little cowl that could be tucked over the head, but now hung down in back.
I know something about puppets, even though my line is a far cry from puppeteering. I am a private detective. But I knew that this was not a marionette, controlled by strings, but a hand puppet. It was made so that the operator's hand could be slipped up through the empty garment until his fingers were in a position to animate the head and arms. During an exhibition the operator would be concealed beneath the stage, which had no floor, and only the puppet would be visible above the footlights.
I drew the robe over my hand and fitted my index finger up into the head, my second finger into the right sleeve, and my thumb into the left sleeve of the puppet. That, as I recalled, was the usual technique. Now the figure was no longer limp. My wrist and forearm filled out the robe.
I wiggled finger and thumb, and the manikin waved his arms wildly, though somewhat awkwardly, for I have seldom manipulated a puppet. I crooked my first finger and the little head gave a vigorous nod.
"Good morning, Jack Ketch," I said, making the manikin bow, as if acknowledging my salutation.
"Don't!" cried Delia, and turned her head away.
Delia was puzzling me. I had always thought her a particularly level-headed woman and, up to three years ago, I had seen a great deal of her and had had a chance to judge.
Three years ago she had married the distinguished puppeteer, Jock Lathrop, with whom I was also acquainted. Then our paths had separated. But I'd had no inkling of anything being amiss until she had appeared this morning in my New York office and poured out a series of vague hints and incredible suspicions so strange that anything resembling them did not often come a private detective's way, though I hear many odd and bizarre stories during the course of a year's work.
I looked at her closely. She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and considerably more exotic, as might be expected now that she was moving in artistic circles. Her thick, golden hair fell straight to her shoulders, where it was waved under. Her gray suit was smartly tailored, and her gray suede shoes trim. At her throat was a barbaric-looking brooch of hammered gold. A long golden pin kept a sketchy little hat and a handful of veil in place.
But she was still the old Delia, still the "softie Viking," as we sometimes used to call her. Except that anxiety was twisting her lips, and fear showed in her big gray eyes.
"What really is the matter, Delia?" I said, sitting down beside her. "Has Jock been getting out of hand?"
"Oh, don't be foolish, George!" she replied sharply. "It's nothing like that. I'm not afraid of Jock, and I'm not looking for a detective to get any evidence for me. I've come to you because I'm afraid for him. It's those horrible puppets. They're trying ... Oh, how can I explain it! Everything was all right until he accepted that engagement in London you must remember about, and began prying into his family history, his genealogy. Now there are things he won't discuss with me, things he won't let me see. He avoids me. And, George, I'm certain that, deep in his heart, he's afraid too. Terribly afraid."
"Listen, Delia," I said. "I don't know what you mean by all this talk about the puppets, but I do know one thing. You're married to a genius. And geniuses, Delia, are sometimes hard to live with. They're notoriously inconsiderate, without meaning to be. Just read their biographies! Half the time they go around in a state of abstraction, in love with their latest ideas, and fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. Jock's fanatically devoted to his puppets, and he should be! All the critics who know anything about the subject say he's the best in the world, better even than Franetti. And they're raving about his new show as the best of his career!"
Delia's gray suede fist beat her knee.
"I know, George. I know all about that! But it has nothing to do with what I'm trying to tell you. You don't suppose I'm the sort of wife who would whine just because her husband is wrapped up in his work? Why, for a year I was his assistant, helped him make the costumes, even operated some of the less important puppets. Now he won't even let me in his workshop. He won't let me come back-stage. He does everything himself. But I wouldn't mind even that, if it weren't that I'm afraid. It's the puppets themselves, George! They – they're trying to hurt him. They're trying to hurt me too."
I searched for a reply. I felt thoroughly uncomfortable. It is not pleasant to hear an old friend talking like a lunatic. I lifted my head and frowned at the malevolent doll-face of Jack Ketch, blue as that of a drowned man. Jack Ketch is the hangman in the traditional puppet play, "Punch and Judy." He takes his name from a Seventeenth Century executioner who officiated with rope and red-hot irons at Tyburn in London.
"But Delia," I said, "I don't see what you're driving at. How can an ordinary puppet -."
"But it isn't an ordinary puppet!" Delia broke in vehemently. "That's why I brought it for you to see. Look at it closely. Look at the details. Is it an ordinary puppet?"
Then I saw what she meant.
"There are some superficial differences," I admitted.
"What are they?" she pressed.
"That's right. Go on."
"Then the head," I continued unwillingly. "There are no eyes painted on it – just eyeholes. And it's much thinner than most I've seen. More like a – a mask."
Delia gripped my arm, dug her fingers in.
"You've said the word, George!" she cried. "Like a mask! Now do you see what I mean? He has some horrible little creatures like rats that do it for him. They wear the puppets' robes and heads. That's why he won't allow me or anyone else to come backstage during a performance. And they're trying to hurt him, kill him! I know. I've heard them threaten him."
"Delia," I said, gently taking hold of her arms, "you don't know what you're saying. You're nervous, over-wrought. Just because your husband invents a new type of puppet – why, it explains itself. It's because of his work on these new-type puppets that he's become secretive."
She jerked away from me.
"Won't you try to understand, George? I know how mad it sounds, but I'm not mad. At night, when Jock has thought I was asleep I've heard them threaten him with their high little voices like whistles. 'Let us go – let us go or we'll kill you!' they cry, and I'm so weak with fear I can't move. They're so tiny they can creep about everywhere."
"Have you seen them?" I asked quickly.
"No, but I know they're real! Last night one of them tried to scratch my eyes out while I was asleep. Look!"
She swept back the thick hair from her temple, and at that moment I also felt as if the needle-touch of fear had been transmitted to me. There in the creamy skin, an inch from the eye, were five little scratches that looked as if they might have been made by a miniature human hand. For a moment I could almost see the ratlike little creature Delia had described, its clawed hand upraised...
Then the image faded and I was realizing that such grotesque happenings were impossible. But oddly I felt as if I no longer could attribute everything Delia had told me to her neurotic fancies. I feared, also – but my fear was that there was a plot afoot, one meant to terrify her, to work on her superstitious fears, and delude her.
"Would you like me to visit Jock?" I asked quietly.
Some of the weight seemed to drop from her shoulders. "I was hoping you'd say that," she said, with relief...
The exquisitely lettered sign read:
LATHROP'S PUPPETS–2nd Floor
Outside, Forty-second Street muttered and mumbled. Inside, a wooden stair with worn brass fittings led up into a realm of dimness and comparative silence.
"Wait a minute, Delia," I said. "There are a couple of questions I'd like you to answer. I want to get this whole thing straight before I see Jock."
She stopped and nodded, but before I could speak again our attention was attracted by a strange series of sounds from the second floor. Heavy stamping, then what seemed to be an explosion of curses in a foreign language, then rapid pacing up and down, another explosion of curses, and more pacing. It sounded as if a high-class tantrum were in progress.
Suddenly the noises ceased. I could visualize a person "pausing and swelling up in silent rage." With equal suddenness they recommenced, this time ending in a swift and jarring clump-clump of footsteps down the stairs. Delia shrank back against the railing as a fattish man with gray eyebrows, glaring eyes, and a mouth that was going through wordless but vituperative contortions neared us. He was wearing an expensive checked suit and a white silk shirt open at the neck. He was crumpling a soft felt hat.
He paused a few steps above us and pointed at Delia dramatically. His other hand was crumpling a soft felt hat.
"You, madam, are the wife of that lunatic, are you not?" he demanded accusingly.
"I'm Jock Lathrop's wife, if that's what you mean, Mr. Franetti," Delia said cooly. "What's the matter?"
I recognized Luigi Franetti then. He was often referred to by the press as the "Dean of Puppeteers." I remembered that Jock had been in his workshop and studied under him several years ago.
"You ask me what is the matter with me?" Franetti ranted. "You ask me that, Madam Lathrop? Bah!" Here he crumpled his hat again. "Very well – I will tell you! Your husband is not only a lunatic. He is also an ingrate! I come here to congratulate him on his recent success, to take him to my arms. After all, he is my pupil. Everything he learned from me. And what is his gratitude? What, I ask you? He will not let me touch him? He will not even shake hands! He will not let me into his workshop! Me! Franetti, who taught him everything!"
He swelled up with silent rage, just as I'd visualized it. But only for a moment. Then he was off again.
"But I tell you he is a madman!" he shouted, shaking his finger at Delia. "Last night I attended, unannounced and uninvited, a performance of his puppets. They do things that are impossible – impossible without Black Magic. I am Luigi Franetti, and I know! Nevertheless, I thought he might be able to explain it to me today. But no, he shuts me out! He has the evil eye and the devil's fingers, I tell you. In Sicily people would understand such things. In Sicily he would be shot! Bah! Never will I so much as touch him with my eyes again. Let me pass!"
He hurried down the rest of the stairs, Delia squeezing back and turning her head. In the doorway he turned for a parting shot.
"And tell me, Madam Lathrop," he cried, "what a puppeteer wants with rats!"
With a final "Bah!" he rushed out.
II
Strange Actions
I DIDN'T STOP LAUGHING until I saw Delia's face. Then it occurred to me that Franetti's accusations, ludicrous as they were, might seem to her to fit with her own suspicions.
"You can't take seriously what a man like Franetti says," I remonstrated. "He's jealous because Jock won't bow down to him and make a complete revelation of all his new technical discoveries and inventions."
Delia did not reply. She was staring after Franetti, absentmindedly pulling at the corner of a tiny handkerchief with her teeth. Watching her, I knew again the fear she felt, as if again she were feeling a little creature gouging at her temple.
"Anything to that last remark of Franetti's?" I asked lightly. "Jock doesn't keep white rats for pets by any chance?"
"I don't know," Delia said abstractedly. "I told you he never lets me in his workroom." Then she looked at me. "You said you wanted to ask me some more questions?"
I nodded. On the way here I had been revolving in my mind an unpleasant hypothesis. If Jock no longer loved Delia and had some reason for wanting to be rid of her he might be responsible for her suspicions. He had every chance to trick her.
"You said the change in Jock began to show while you were in London," I said. "Tell me the precise circumstances."
"He'd always been interested in old books and in genealogy, you see, but never to the same extent," she said, after a thoughtful pause. "In a way it was chance that began it. An accident to his hands. A rather serious one, too. A window fell on them, mashing the fingers badly. Of course a puppeteer's no good without hands, and so Jock had to lay off for three weeks. To help pass the time, he took to visiting the British Museum and the library there. Later he made many visits to other libraries to occupy his time, since he's apt to be very nervous when anything prevents him from working. When the war started we came back, and the London dates were abandoned. He did not work here, either, for quite a long time, but kept up his studies.
"Then when he was finally ready to start work again he told me he'd decided to work the puppets alone. I pointed out that one man couldn't give a puppet show, since he could only manage two characters at a time. He told me that he was going to confine himself to puppet plays like Punch and Judy, in which there are almost never more than two characters in sight at one time.
"That was three months ago. From that day he's avoided me. George–" her voice broke "–it's almost driven me crazy. I've had the craziest suspicions. I've even thought that he lost both his hands in the accident and refused to tell!"
"No. Seems strange, doesn't it? But I can't swear even to that. He never lets me come near, and he wears gloves, except in the dark."
"But the puppet shows–"
"That's just it. That's the question I keep asking myself when I sit in the audience and watch the puppets. Who is manipulating them? What's inside them?"
At that moment I determined to do everything I could to battle Delia's fear.
"You're not crazy," I said harshly. "But Jock is!"
She rubbed her hand across her forehead, as it if itched.
"No," she said softly, "it's the puppets. Just as I told you."
As we went on upstairs then I could tell that Delia was anxious to get my interview with Jock started. She had had to nerve herself up to it, and delays were not improving her state of mind. But apparently we were fated to have a hard time getting up that flight of stairs.
This time the interruption came when a slim man in a blue business suit tried to slip in the semi-darkness unnoticed. But Delia recognized him.
"Why, hello, Dick!" she said. "Don't you know old friends?"
I made out prim, regular features and a head of thinning neutral-colored hair.
"Dick, this is George Clayton," Delia was saying. "George, this is Dick Wilkinson. Dick handles my husband's insurance."
Wilkinson's "Howdya do?" sounded embarrassed and constrained. He wanted to get away.
"What did Jock want to see you about?" asked Delia, and Wilkinson's apparent embarrassment increased. He coughed, then seemed to make a sudden decision.
"Jock's been pretty temperamental lately, hasn't he?" he asked Delia.
She nodded slowly.
"I thought so," he said. "Frankly, I don't know why he wanted to see me this morning. I thought perhaps it was something in connection with the accident to his hands. He has never done anything about collecting any of the five-thousand-dollar insurance he took out on them two years ago. But whether that was it or not I can't tell you. He kept me waiting the best part of half an hour. I could not help hearing Mr. Franetti's display of temper. Perhaps that upset Jock. Anyhow when Franetti went away, fuming, five minutes later Jock leaned out of his workshop door and curtly informed me that he had changed his mind–he didn't say about what -and told me to leave."