The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  “What the deuce is wrong with you?” Hamar exclaimed. “Seen your grandmother’s ghost?”

  “No! but I’ve seen the inner readings of that lady yonder,” Kelson replied, indicating with a jerk of his finger a fashionably dressed woman walking towards them on the other side of the road. “The deuce knows how it all comes to me, but I know everything about her, just the same as I did with the girl in the dive—though I’ve never seen her before. She is the wife of D.D. Belton, the cotton magnate, who lives in a big, white house at the corner of Powell Street—and a beauty, I can assure you. Supposed to be most devoted to her husband, she is now on her way to keep an appointment with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe of Sancta Maria’s Church in Appleyard Street, with whom she has been holding clandestine meetings for the past six months.”

  “Whew!” Hamar ejaculated. “You speak as if it was all being pumped into you by some external agency—automatically.”

  “That’s just about what I feel!” Kelson said, “I feel as if it were some one else saying all this—some one else speaking through me. Yet I know all about that woman, just as much as if I had been acquainted with her all my life!”

  “It’s the first power,” Hamar said excitedly, “the power of divination. It takes that form with you, and the form of card tricks with Ed—with me nothing so far.”

  “But what shall I do?” Kelson cried. “How can I benefit by it?”

  “How can’t you?” Curtis growled. “Why, blackmail her! If it is true, she will pay you anything to keep your mouth shut. If once you can tell a woman’s secret, your future’s made. All San Francisco will be at your mercy—God knows who’ll escape! After her at once, you idiot!”

  “Now?” Kelson gasped.

  “Yes! Now! Follow her to Calthorpe’s and waylay her as she comes out. You can refer to us as witnesses.”

  “I feel a bit of a blackguard,” Kelson pleaded.

  “You look it, anyway,” Curtis grinned. “But cheer up—it’s the clothes. Clothes are responsible for everything!”

  After a little persuasion Kelson gave in, but he had to make haste as the lady was nearly out of sight. She took a taxi from the stand opposite Kitson’s hotel, and Kelson took one, too. Two hours later, raising his hat, he accosted her as she stood tapping the pavement of Battery Street with a daintily shod foot, waiting to cross. “Mrs. Belton, I think,” he said. The lady eyed him coldly.

  “Well!” she said, “what do you want? Who are you?”

  “My name can scarcely matter to you,” Kelson responded, “though my business may. I have been engaged to watch you, and am fully posted as to your meetings and correspondence with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe.”

  “I don’t understand you,” the lady said, her cheeks flaming. “You have made a mistake—a very serious mistake for you.”

  For a moment Kelson’s heart failed. He was still a clerk, with all the humility of an office stool and shining trousers’ seat thick on him, whilst she was a grande dame accustomed to the bows and scrapes of employers as well as employed.

  Several people passed by and stared at him—as he thought—suspiciously, and he felt that this was the most critical time in his life, and unless he pulled through, smartly in fact, he would be done once and for all. If he didn’t make haste, too, the woman would undoubtedly call a policeman. It was this thought as well as—though, perhaps, hardly as much as—the look of her that stimulated Kelson to action. He hated behaving badly to women; but was this thing, dressed in a skirt that fitted like a glove and showed up every detail of her figure—this thing with the paint on her cheeks, and eyebrows, and lips—artistically done, perhaps, but done all the same—this thing all loaded with jewellery and buttons—this thing—a woman! No! She was not—she was only a millionaire’s plaything—brainless, heartless—a hobby that cost thousands, whilst countless men such as he—starved. He detested—abominated such luxuries! And thus nerved he retorted, borrowing some of her imperiousness—

  “Do you deny, madam, that for the past two hours you’ve been sitting on the sofa of the end room of the third floor of No. 216, Market Street, flirting with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe, whom you call ‘Mickey-moo’; that you gave him a photo you had taken at Bell’s Studio in Clay Street, specially for him; that you gave him five greenbacks to the value of one hundred and fifty dollars, and that you’ve planned a moonlight promenade with him to-morrow, when your husband will be in Denver?”

  “Don’t talk so loud,” the lady said in a low voice. “Walk along with me a little and then we shan’t be noticed. I see you do know a good deal—how, I can’t imagine, unless you were hidden somewhere in the room. Who has employed you to watch me?”

  “That, madam, I can’t say,” Kelson truthfully responded.

  “And I can’t think,” the lady said, “unless it is some woman enemy. But, after all, you can’t do much since you hold no proofs—your word alone will count for nothing.”

  “Ah, but I have strong corroborative evidence,” Kelson retorted. “I have the testimony of at least two other people who know quite as much as I do.”

  “Adventurers like yourself,” the lady sneered. “My husband would neither believe you nor your friends.”

  “He would believe your letters, any way,” said Kelson.

  “My letters!” the lady laughed, “You’ve no letters of mine.”

  “No, but I know where the correspondence that has passed between you and the Rev. J. T. Calthorpe is to be found. He has sixty-nine letters from you all tied up in pink ribbon, locked up in the bottom drawer of the bureau in his study at the Vicarage. Some of the letters begin with ‘Dearest, duckiest, handsomest Herby’—short for Herbert; and others, ‘Fondest, blondest, darlingest Micky-moo!’ Some end with ‘A thousand and one kisses from your loving and ever devoted Francesca,’ and others with ‘Love and kisses ad infinitum, ever your loving, thirsting, adoring one, Toosie!’ Nice letters from the wife of a respectable Nob Hill magnate to a married clergyman!”

  The lady walked a trifle unsteadily, and much of her colour was gone. “I can’t understand it,” she panted; “somebody has played me false.”

  “As the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is on his way to Sacramento, where he has to remain till to-morrow,” Kelson went on pitilessly, “it will be the easiest thing in the world to get those letters. I have merely to call at the house and tell his wife.”

  “And what good will that do you?” the lady asked.

  “Revenge! I hate the rich,” Kelson said. “I would do anything to injure them.”

  “You are a Socialist?”

  “An Anarchist! But come, you see I know all about you and that I have you completely in my power. If once either your husband or Mrs. Calthorpe gets hold of those letters—you and your lover would have a very unpleasant time of it.”

  “You’re a devil!”

  “Maybe I am—at all events I’m talking to one. But that’s neither here nor there. I want money. Give me a thousand dollars and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Blackmail! I could have you arrested!”

  “Yes, and I would tell the court the whole history of your intrigues! That wouldn’t help you,”—and Kelson laughed.

  “Could I count on you not molesting me again if I were to pay you?” the lady said mockingly.

  “You could.”

  “Do you ever speak the truth?”

  “You needn’t judge every one by your own standard of morality—the standard set up by the millionaire’s wife,” Kelson said. “I swear that if you pay me a thousand dollars I will never trouble you again.”

  The lady grew thoughtful, and for some minutes neither of them spoke. Then she suddenly jerked out: “I think, after all, I’ll accept your proposal. Wait outside here and you shall have what you want within an hour.”

  “Not good enough,” Kelson said,
“I prefer to come with you to your house and wait there.”

  The lady protested, and Kelson consented to wait in the street outside her house, where, eventually, she delivered the money into his hands.

  “I’ve kept my word,” she said, “and if you’re half a man you’ll keep yours.”

  Kelson reassured her, and more than pleased with himself, made for the hotel, where the three of them were now stopping.

  This was merely a beginning. Before the day was out he had secured two more victims. No woman whose character was not without blemish was safe from him—his wonderful newly acquired gift enabling him to detect any vice, no matter how snugly hidden. And this wonderful power of discernment brought with it an expression of mystery and penetration which, by enhancing the effect of the power, made the application of it comparatively easy. Kelson had only to glide after his victim, and with his eyes fixed searchingly on her, to say, “Madam, may I have a word with you?”—and the battle was more than half won—the women were too fascinated to think of resistance.

  For example, shortly after his initial adventure, he saw a very smartly dressed woman in Van Ness Avenue peep about furtively, and then stop and speak to a little child, who was walking with its nurse. Divination at once told him everything—the lady was the mother of the child, but its father was not her legitimate husband, W.S. Hobson, the millionaire mine owner.

  When Kelson courteously informed her he was in possession of her secret—a secret she had felt positively certain only one other person knew, she went the colour of her pea-green sunshade and attempted to remonstrate. But Kelson’s appearance, no less than his marvellous knowledge of her life, and character dumbfounded her—she was simply paralysed into admission; and before he left her, Kelson had added another thousand dollars to his hoard.

  That evening, close to the Academy of Science in Market Street, he saw a lady get out of a taxi and quickly enter a pawnbroker’s. Her whole life at once rose up before him. She was Ella Crockford, the wife of the Californian Street Sugar King, and, unknown to her husband, she spent her afternoons at a gambling saloon in Kearney Street, where she ran through thousands.

  She was now about to pledge her husband’s latest present to her—a diamond tiara, one of the most notable pieces of jewellery in the country—in the hope that she would soon win back sufficient money at cards to redeem it.

  Kelson stopped her as she came out, and in a marvellously few words, proved to her that he knew everything. Her amazement was beyond description.

  “You must be a magician,” she said, “because I’m certain no one saw me take my jewel-case out of the drawer—no one was in the room! And as I put it in my muff immediately, no one could have seen it as I left the house. Besides, I never told a soul I intended pawning it, so how is it possible you could know—and be able to repeat the whole of the conversation I had with Walter Le-Grand, to whom I lost so heavily last night? Tell me, how do you know all this?”

  But Kelson would tell her nothing—nothing beyond her own sins and misfortunes.

  “I have nothing to give you,” she told him. “I dare not ask my husband for more money.”

  “What, nothing!” Kelson replied, “When the pawnbroker has just advanced you fifty thousand dollars. You call that nothing? Be pleased to give me one thousand, and congratulate yourself that I do not ask for all your ‘nothing.’” And as neither tears nor prayers had any effect, she was obliged to pay him the sum he asked.

  Flushed and excited with victory, and thinking, perhaps, that he had done enough for one day, Kelson took his spoils to a bank near the Palace Hotel, and for the first time in his career opened a banking account. As he was leaving the building he ran into Hamar, bent on a similar errand. The two gleefully compared notes.

  “I thought,” Hamar said, “my turn would never come, and that I must have done something to get out of favour with the Unknown; but as I was sitting in the Pig and Whistle Saloon in Corn Street drinking a lager, I suddenly felt a peculiar throbbing sensation run up my left leg into my left hand, and the floor seemed to open up, and I saw deep below me, in a black pit, a skeleton clutching hold of a linen bag, full of coins. I could see the gold quite distinctly—Spanish doubles, none newer than the eighteenth century. I knew then that the Unknown had not forgotten me. ‘Look here, boss,’ I said to old man Moss—the proprietor, you know—‘You’re a bit of a juggins to go on working with so much money under here,’—and I pointed to the floor.

  “‘I’m surprised at you, Hamar,’ Moss said, cocking an eye at me, ‘and lager, too!’

  “‘No, old man!’ I said, ‘I’m not drunk. I’m sober and serious. You’ve got a cellar below here, haven’t you?’

  “‘Well, and what if I have!’ Moss retorted, drawing a step closer and running his eyes carefully over me. ‘What if I have! There’s no harm in that, is there?’

  “‘You keep all your stock down there,’ I went on, ‘and more beside. I can see a hat-pin with a gold nob, that’s not your wife’s, and a pair of shoes with dandy silver buckles, that’s not intended for your wife, nohow.’

  “At that Moss made a queer noise in his throat, and I thought he was going to have a fit. ‘What—what the devil are you talking about?’ he gurgled.

  “‘I wish I had had you with me—then, Matt, for you could have doubtless summed up the woman to him—she was a blank to me—I only divined one had been there. ‘Yes, Mr. Mossy,’ I said, ‘you’re a gay deceiver and no mistake! I know all about it!’

  “‘Do you,’ he said, eyeing me excitedly. ‘Do you know all about it? I’m not so sure, but in order to avoid running any risks, drop your voice a bit and have a cocktail with me!’

  “He poured me out one, and I went on softly, ‘Well, boss Moss,’ I said, ‘we’ll leave the female out of the question for the present. Underneath this cellar of yours, is a pit.’

  “‘I’m damned if there is!’ Moss snorted; ‘leastways, it’s the first I’ve ever heard of it.’

  “‘And in this pit,’ I said, ‘is the skeleton of a Spanish buccaneer called Don Guzman, who landed in this port on August 10, 1699, and after robbing and slicing up a family of the name of Hervada, who lived on the site of what is now the Copthorne Hotel, was hurrying off with all their money and jewels, when he fell into a pit, covered with brambles and briars, and broke his neck.’

  “‘And you expect me to believe this cock and bull story,’ Moss growled. ‘Being out of a job so long has made you balmy.’

  “‘It hasn’t made me too balmy not to see through the way you deceive your wife, Moss,’ I said. ‘I’ll bet she would think me sane enough if I were to tell her all I know. But I’ll spare you if you will take me into your cellar and help me to do a bit of excavation there. But promise, mind you, that we will go shares in what we find.’

  “‘Oh, I’ll promise right enough,’ Moss replied. ‘I’ll promise anything—if only to keep you from talking such moonshine.’

  “Well, in the end I prevailed upon him to accompany me, and we went into the cellar—just as I had depicted it—armed with a pick-axe and crowbar. Moss growling and jeering every step he took, and I, deadly in earnest.

  “‘It’s under here,’ I said, halting over a flagstone in the corner of the vault. ‘But before we do anything you had better hide that hat-pin and these shoes, or your missis will find them. She’ll hear us scraping and come to see what’s up.’

  “Moss, who was in a vile temper all the time, made a grab at the things, pricking his finger and swearing horribly. In the meanwhile I had set to work, and, with his aid, raised the stone. We dug for pretty nearly an hour, Moss calling upon me all the time to ‘chuck it,’ when I suddenly struck something hard—it was the skeleton and close beside it, was the bag. You should have seen Moss then. He was simply overcome—called me a wizard, a magician, and heaven alone knows what, and fairly stood on his
head with delight when we opened the bag, and hundreds of gold coins and precious stones rolled out on the floor. He wanted to go back on his word then, and only give me a handful; but I was too smart for him, and swore I would tell his wife about the girl unless he gave me half. When we were leaving the cellar, of course, he wanted me to go first, so that he could follow with the pickaxe, but here again I was too sharp for him—and I got safely out of the place with my pockets bulging. I went right away to Prescott’s in Clay Street, and let the lot go for three thousand dollars. I wonder how Curtis has got on!”

  They walked together to the hotel, and found Curtis busily engaged eating. “I’ve worked hard,” he said, “and now I’m in for enjoying myself. I’ve made them get out a special menu for me, and I’m going to eat till I can’t hold another morsel. I’ve starved all my life and now I intend making up for it.”

  “Been successful?” Hamar asked, winking at Kelson.

  “Pretty well! Nothing to grumble at,” Curtis rejoined, pouring himself out a glass of champagne. “First of all I went to Simpson’s Dive in Sacramento Street, and started doing the tricks we discovered yesterday. Not a soul in the place could see through them, and I made about two hundred dollars before I left. I then had lunch.”

  “Why you had lunch with us!” Hamar laughed.

  “Well, can’t I have as many lunches as I like?” Curtis replied. “I had lunch, I say, at a place in Market Street, and there I read in a paper that Peters & Pervis, the tin food people, were offering a prize of three thousand dollars for a solution to a puzzle contained on the inside cover of one of their tins. I immediately determined to enter for it. I bought a tin and saw through the puzzle at once. Bribing a policeman to go with me to see fair play, off I set to Peters & Pervis’.

  “‘I want to see your boss,’ I said to the first clerk I saw.

  “‘Which of them?’ the clerk grunted, his cheeks turning white at the sight of the policeman.