Long John Nebel

by Way Out World

  “Mr. Daut,” I said, “My engineer, inside the control booth there, behind the glass panel, is holding up his Social Security card with the numbers concealed. Can you tell me the number?” I should add at this point that Daut was not facing the control booth, nor had he met my engineer. Nor did I know the number on the card.

  “I’ll try it,” said Daut.

  He appeared to concentrate for about twenty-five or thirty seconds. He closed his eyes and his brows wrinkled. On the other side of the table, the panelists smiled; one of them winked at me. And I must confess, too, I was certain that nothing of great interest would happen.

  “I see the number 104…I see a 2…and a 6…and something like a dash…I need a moment to concentrate.” Daut went on. “10426 and 914.”

  In the control room my engineer was waving furiously. He picked up the phone and said, “It’s unbelievable. He was off only one number. It is 104 26 954—not 914.”

  Daut smiled when I told him.

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Actually, this was not a tough test since the card in question was only a matter of thirty feet away. I have sometimes been successful at much greater distances.”

  “How about ten miles? Would you care to make a test at that distance?” I asked.

  “Why not?” Daut replied.

  At that moment, fortunately and coincidentally, my producer entered the studio from the control room, where our teleprinter is. A telegram had arrived which suited our purposes admirably. It read:

  “LONG JOHN. WUX. NEW YORK. MY CAR IS PARKED IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE IN NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, (and here an address was given). CAN MR. DAUT TELL ME WHAT THE NUMBERS ON THE LICENSE PLATE ARE AND WHAT KIND OF CAR IT IS?”

  It was signed by a listener from whom we had received telegrams regularly, and who owned and operated a well-known tavern in our neighboring state.

  This was the kind of test I liked. Here was a case where no one knew any of the answers—but it was a difficult one. I could understand if Daut ducked this one.

  “This will take a little longer,” was his only observation. “And I make no guarantees. I just ask for absolute silence.”

  In about three minutes, he began speaking a little slower than his normal pace, but not haltingly.

  “I see a black—no, a black and white car. It has white wall tires…no, only three…one tire is black. It has a New Jersey license plate. HL…HL…312…HL 31254. I also see a copy of (and he mentioned a prominent newspaper) on the front seat, folded, with half the headline showing.”

  Adding the make, year and model, he short of slumped back.

  Meanwhile, my producer had the sender of the wire on the phone, listening to the description over his radio. The report came in. The result was amazing. The car was black and cream, not black and white. All four tires were actually white walls, but one, the right rear, was rubbed almost black. There was a newspaper on the seat. The license plate number was entirely correct, and the make, year and model of the car was accurate. When asked if he had any explanation of his powers, Mr. Daut merely suggested that having them was enough; he would leave the explanations to other people. I must admit, to this day I’ve never dreamed up an answer for that one. I know all the tricks and all the gimmicks and all the gaffs. I know all the devices and the machines and the instruments—I know all the swindles. But this time not only didn’t I buy it, I didn’t even understand it.

  Of course, not all so-called psychics perform like Bill Daut, whose technique might be classified as the non-mystical, or parapsychological. Some are really far out, almost eerie.

  I remember one night I had a lady on who called herself Pauline. She claimed to have various kinds of psychic powers and each one was a little wilder than the last. To begin with, she was responsible for some of the most amazing paintings I’ve ever seen. They were brilliant oil color pictures which sometimes seemed to have faces or eyes or half-hidden figures peeking out from behind great swirls of paint, others appeared to be highly sexual in their meaning, a few were completely too gaffed for me to read. According to Pauline, they all had very special meanings and messages which came from “The Elders.”

  Her second bit was as fascinating as the first. These were her masks. And take my word for it, neighbors, you never saw masks like these before. Some covered her entire face, others only half of it, a few were just for the eyes. They came in thirty or forty different shapes. One was fringed all across the bottom, a second sprouted antenna-like things all across the top, a third flew off into wings on both sides, and on they went in greens, blacks, scarlets, golds, silvers, with beads, chips of mica, spangles, feathers, embroidery…believe me if it was something a fantastic imagination could think of, she had turned it into a mask. And almost every one was really beautiful. Of course, I don’t mean to imply that they were all designed at random; that would be untrue. Each mask was the face, or expression, or something, of a genuine, one hundred percent “Elder.”

  But to get on with the interview. After all of these remarkable works of mystical art had been described and discussed over the air (and shown when I had the lady on television) she prepared to go into trance. I had the studio darkened and only the dim light from the engineer’s booth was visible. I could just make out the face of my guest about three feet away across the table. It was completely quiet.

  “Are you ready to go into trance, Pauline?” I asked.

  There was no answer, but I got the impression her eyes were closed.

  “Are you ready now?” I tried again.

  There was no reply. Instead the medium began to sway from side to side. I had a kind of weird feeling that one of us was out of touch, and I was beginning to have my doubts as to which one it was. Then it happened.

  “OOOOOoooooooeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEoooooooaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuu!”

  Square count, friends, I must have cleared my chair by a good six inches. The siren-sounding moaning-modulated wailing whine came out loud enough to be heard three studios away, and they’re soundproof to begin with. Like, man, I was really shook! During the deathly silence that followed, it took me about five minutes to calm down. I spent this time trying to describe Pauline’s swaying and quiet mumbles, expecting the message to come through. Unfortunately, I had miscalculated the entire bit. I was totally unprepared when it screamed out again.

  “AAAAAAARRRRRgggggggggaaaaaarrrrrroooooooEEEEEEEEEEKKKKuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEKKK!”

  Over went the microphone, which hit a glass of water—and that went over, too. The engineer, who had almost had a heart attack the first time, was now in a state of hysterical convulsions. I could hear his roars of laughter through the heavy glass between his booth and the studio. But there was no time to worry about any of these things. Now the message was beginning to sing-song “through” in a ghostly chant.

  “We are the spirit forces, Pauline. We have answered your call,” she howled.

  “Pauline,” I asked, “are we in contact with ‘The Elders’?”

  “We speak for the great ones,” came the reply.

  “Can you tell us just who ‘The Elders’ are?”

  “‘The Elders’ are the super-spirits, the Masters; they rule all.”

  “Where do they come from?,” was my next question.

  “They always were, they always will be. They were before mankind and will be here when it is long gone.”

  As the trance interview continued, I learned that “The Elders” were an invisible race of giants who existed on a parallel time stream. They occasionally condescend to interfere with the lives of human beings, but not too often. One of the more interesting things about them is that they’re all female. It seems that males were a later development in history. The result of some sort of goof. Actually, we’re all really mutants. As a matter of fact, when you hear the whole story you realize that Pauline probably has material here that Freud never heard of. But eventually everything will work out, she promises, because one day “The Elders” will take over again and straigh
ten out the store. That’s one of the most original parts of her pitch, she doesn’t particularly deal with those who’ve “passed over.” Her contacts always were “over.” That is, they aren’t dead people, they’re live spirits. Well, I suppose she understands what I’m talking about.

  Falling into a somewhat different category, although having a similar interest in prehistoric races, is Mark Probert. Mr. Probert has established contact with a control named “Yada,” who speaks in the language of “Yu.” As I recall, both are from civilizations which existed some fifty thousand years ago. “Yada” speaks in a strange, musical tone, which is untranslateable except by Mr. Probert’s charming wife and himself. However, fortunately, Mr. Probert can often induce “Yada” to translate and speak in English. At which time he reveals many curious and interesting facts about his native land and time zone.

  And so it goes. A few raps, a few taps, and a message on a slate. Semi-pros up through the levitation mediums, the voice mediums, skeleton mediums, partial materialization mediums, and complete ectoplasmic materialization mediums. Then, jumping across the bridge to the other stream, the offbeat among the offbeat: clairvoyant mediums, the mediums who contact the invisible races that roam between us, above us, and beside us, who were here before we came, and who will be here after we’re gone. Some are dull. Some are interesting. Some are fascinating. Some are successful, like Florence of New Jersey who, because of a reputed service to the phone company in locating some stolen goods, has been listed in the phone book as “Florence—Psychic.” She’s the only one listed in the Manhattan phone book this way, and, as far as I know, the only one in the country. Each one has his own bit, each has his own pitch. The ones like Daut, and Pauline, Florence and Probert, are intriguing. Even if you don’t believe a word they’re saying, they’re fascinating. And they’re not dangerous. However, that doesn’t change the viciousness of some operators, the swindlers who clip the few hard-earned dollars of the gullible little old lady who would give up her very life to talk once more to her son, who was killed in the war. Sometimes it’s entertainment; sometimes it’s religion. Sometimes it’s business. Sometimes it’s just pure, unadulterated, sadistic con.

  CHAPTER 11—TALES OF MAGIC AND THE OCCULT—SOME WITHOUT ENDINGS

  “Only the dream will last.”—Anderson M. Scruggs

  I SAW HIM disappear. To this day, I say that without hesitation. But let me tell you the whole story.

  Several years ago, although the New York Paramount Theatre had discontinued its stage presentation policy, a couple of times a year they would revert to some live entertainment on their stage, such as a show featuring top names in the rock-and-roll field, a ghost show, and on one particular occasion they booked Dr. William Neff, great stage illusionist, a real friend—and a great guy.

  Bill, from time to time, had appeared on my show discussing witchcraft, voodoo, and some of the other controversial mystical subjects. He had been in touch with me and told me that he would be appearing during the then current week at the Paramount Theatre. During that week, on Thursday morning, after I wrapped up the radio bit, instead of going over to Carnegie Delicatessen and Restaurant to enjoy my hearty breakfast, I decided to hit the pad early so I could make the afternoon performance at the Paramount.

  The movie for that week was a horror movie—and let me again emphasize the fact that it was a real horror. Not being a sportsman I actually don’t know what happens at Yankee Stadium on a snowy afternoon with the temperature at two below zero. But I have an idea that it’s possibly about as populated as the Paramount Theatre was on that eventful afternoon that I witnessed the disappearance of Dr. William Neff. In a theatre built to seat approximately three thousand people, I noted that I had approximately a hundred and fifty companions of the cultural arts scattered far and wide. And for some three or four minutes, during the time that all the house lights are on after the feature has ended and just prior to the live entertainment, the traveler curtain is closed and this is considered intermission—whatever that means. I have an idea that it’s a period of time when the ushers walk up and down the aisle taking an inventory of the number of seats that have been stolen during the last performance, how many large cuts have been made in the upholstery, and of minor smoldering fires in unused sections of the theatre. This keeps management on their toes so, in the event that a large crowd shows up for the evening performance, if there’s a need they can quickly get additional seats to replace those stolen by the patrons of the fine arts who have attended the symposium of the afternoon.

  You know, I just thought I’d mention this in passing. When I first came to New York—and I know what you’re thinking, that it was at the turn of the century; actually, it was around 1930—I was employed as an usher in the New York Paramount Theatre. And in those days they were employing young men who had either completed their college education or were in the process of acquiring it. How I could do it? Well, that’s a book in itself. And if you’ll write the editors at Prentice-Hall, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, and ask them to publish L. J.’s next book, “How I Got My Job at the New York Paramount with a Public School Education,” who knows? maybe they’ll publish it. With no reflection on the present management of the New York Paramount Theatre, that afternoon I realized that there was a vast difference in the quality of the audience. I didn’t have time to do any research into the current qualifications for usher material. So I will not comment. But as I looked around during those few minutes when all the house lights were on I wasn’t sure whether this was the annual meeting of the kid gang chiefs from the various parts of the country and a handful of pickpockets, muggers, and to season this mélange, a handful of derelicts thrown in. How Neff had the courage to work to that house has always been one of nature’s greatest phenomena.

  All right, I’ve digressed a little from the story. And in case you’re wondering, I heard the word “digress” from one of my guests one morning, and I liked it so I added it to my vocabulary. So I now have 803 words—and mispronounce about 772 of them.

  Now that I had checked the other members of the tip that I was a part of to witness the good doctor’s performance, the lights gradually dimmed and music emanated from the public address speakers around the theatre. And naturally it was obvious to me that this was not really a low budget show; it was budget-less. There were no live musicians in the pit, under the stage, overhead, underhead, or any place for that matter. And if I’m mistaken, in other words if this music was being played by live musicians, I sincerely hope that a member of that aggregation will read this apology and certainly this accolade. These guys were so sensational that they were even able to create sound effects that would make the average guy think he was listening to a record that had originally been poorly recorded, and had been used thousands of times, and for that particular performance somebody had possibly taken out the diamond stylus from the cartridge and had replaced it—not with a zircon, but with a sliver from a broken Coca Cola bottle. Again I repeat—this was a show that was budget-less. Bear in mind, however, that this had nothing to do with the tremendous talent, know-how, knowledge, superb dexterity and ability that Dr. William Neff is endowed with.

  After some technical electronic genius backstage, who no doubt considered himself to be a top sound engineer, gradually pulled the pot down—which means to lower the volume of the music—we heard a voice that came from the great beyond (at least beyond the proscenium arch). This voice alerted all of us—those who had been honing the blades of their switch-bladed knives to keener surgical cutting edges, others who had been nervously switching the weight of their bodies from the left cushion of their derrieres to the right cushion, and a handful who had reached the point of slumber that strange noises were emanating from them, having no definite tonal quality except that which is commonly known as snoring—to become ready for the mysteries of the east, the E.S.P. of Duke University, the witchcraft and demonology and the general enchantment of a William Lindsay Gresham book. Minutes later, after this announcement,
we all witnessed the appearance of the great one, Dr. William Neff.

  All of the activities being practiced by our little group of searchers for the cultural things of life were discontinued. Hones and knives were put back in pockets for later hours of unlicensed dark-street surgical work; the nervousness of those shifting from the left to the right cushion, as they became intensely aware that it would start in a moment, they straightened themselves into a position that possibly they considered a demonstration of welcomeness for the purveyor of mysticism; and the sound of the snoring gradually faded away to such an extent that even the finest decibel meter would fail to register. I can’t honestly say that there was a tremendous ovation. It would be unfair to say that the applause was deafening to welcome the great man. Possibly the applause was unanimous. It could possibly be described in this manner: No doubt every fortunate individual that afternoon genuinely wanted to be a part of this tremendous ovation. But to applaud requires the use of the left and the right hands, and these two extremities must come in direct contact, and after they have reached a contact, by some reflex action they are separated again and again and again. In other words, this activity is repeated many times. The sound that this creates is known to people of the theatre as applause, and to many a nutrient. That’s why I’m puzzled. I think if it had been possible to have talked to these people as a group prior to the performance we could have learned that many of them would have been happy to use their right hand in combination with the left hand of their neighbors to have created the same sound effect. But to use all of this energy by using both of their own appendages no doubt to some seemed a trifle unnecessary, and certainly it was not a part of the assumed contractual agreement that was made with the management of the theatre upon purchase of the ticket.

  My reason for taking up so much space with the past material is based on the personal desire to let one and all know that Dr. William Neff was working under the most adverse conditions that I think any performer has ever been forced to endure. Let’s get to the story.