Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 12, No. 59, November 1948

The Green-and-Gold String by Philip MacDonald

Early in October 1947, about two weeks before EQMM’S Third Annual Contest closed, your Editor received the following note from Philip MacDonald: “I have a contest story coming up which I think you’re going to like. I actually believe I have done the near-impossible — created a really new detective and a new technique.” Well, you can imagine the anticipation which began to boil and bubble in your Editor’s mind! A new type of detective and a new technical approach from a writer of such outstanding accomplishment as Philip MacDonald, who in the opinion of most critics has already produced two of the mightiest classics in the genre! We wrote to Mr. MacDonald, telling him how eagerly we looked forward to his manuscript, and waited — biting our nails. And on the final day of the contest the story arrived — the first recorded adventure of the esoteric Doctor Alcazar. Aficionados, there are thrills in this bloodhound business entirely apart from those to be found in the stories themselves — the suspense of observing a mailman fish a large manila envelope out of his bag, the excitement of reading an important and long expected manuscript — the feeling, on first looking into a writer’s dream, of some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken... and the wild surprise that comes, silent, upon a peek into daring...

Philip MacDonald wrote “The Green-and-Gold String” because Cortez-like he too recognizes the necessity of exploring, of discovering new horizons for the detective story. As Mr. MacDonald remarked in a later communication, the search for new basic forms “is quite a problem.” Mr. MacDonald believes that the character of Doctor Alcazar might be one solution, because this clairvoyant extraordinary, this Olympian-browed charlatan, blends completely those two perennial favorites — the deductive sleuth and the debonair rogue; because Doctor Alcazar is, in effect, Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin crammed simultaneously into the same pair of pants. He isn’t merely a rogue who happens once to be a detective; or a rogue who reforms, giving up thieving for sleuthing. He isn’t at one time a red-handed criminal and at another time a righteous manhunter. In Doctor Alcazar the two sides of the law, for and against, are fused in one and the same character: Doctor Alcazar can’t detect without being a crook, and he can’t be a crook without detecting.

Mr. MacDonald’s got something; but the hybridization of good and evil, producing the scoundrel-sleuth, the felonious-ferret, is not an altogether new idea. True, malefactors like Melville Davisson Post’s Randolph Mason, Edgar Wallace’s Four Just Men, James B. Hendryx’s Black John Smith, and Leslie Charteris’s The Saint have had a go at both straight detection and detection in reverse, though not usually as a combined operation. But in “The Red Silk Scarf” the great Arsène detected with criminal intent, and in “The Stickpin” Antonio Helú’s Máximo Roldán duplicated Lupin’s double-dealing with almost comparable finesse and éclat. Yes, it has been done — but not so frequently, we admit, as to invalidate Mr. MacDonald’s theory. Nor should the fact that a phoney seer has already left his mark in ’tec history discourage Mr. MacDonald from pursuing his near-innovation: Gelett Burgess’s Astro was Alcazar’s spiritual forefather — Astro who also pretended to be a crystal-gazer, whose jeweled turban, flowing robes, silver-mounted water-pipe, and pet white lizard make Alcazar’s props seem almost prosaic.

Now, meet Alcazar, the ratiocinative rogue. The very letters of his name, although Mr. MacDonald did not intend them to, tell us what manner of man he is. A stands for Astro, his mind-reading ancestor; l is for Lupin, who blazed the double trail; c is undoubtedly for Cleek, who also burned the criminological candle from both ends — for Gleek wasfirst the Vanishing Cracksman and then the Manhunter of Forty Faces; a is for a touch of Abû Tabâh, but an even greater helping of the Adjusters; z is a little of Zadig, a little more of Zambra, and a lot of Zaleski; a is for Ainsley, the gentleman crook; and r is for one part Raffles, one part Roldán, and a large dash of Rénine. Yes, there is a little bit of many blackguards and bloodhounds in Alcazar, but unlike the mathematical dictum, the whole is far greater than the sum of its parts — for there is always that part of Alcazar which is Alcazar — and Alcazar alone.

The banner hung over the entrance of a small, square tent of pitch-black canvas, which was sandwiched between a shooting gallery and the beflagged pitch of the. Weight-Guesser. The banner read, “DOCTOR ALCAZAR, Clairvoyam Extraordynary — What Does the Future Hold For YOU? General Reading — 50¢ Special Delineation — $1.00.”

All down the midway the lights blazed, and the evening air was heavy with the odd, distinctive odor which comes from the blending of humanity and peanuts, popcorn and circus.

In the doorway of the small black tent, Doctor Alcazar — who had no right to the name and less to the title — was receiving his second client of the past twenty-four hours.

Doctor Alcazar was tall and graceful and lean. His face was of extraordinary pallor, his dark eyes large and lustrous and glowing. His black, well-tended hair, impressively gray at the temples, surmounted an Olympian brow and he wore, over evening clothes and a pleated shirt in whose faintly yellowish bosom sparkled an enormous ruby-red stud, a long black cloak which hung gracefully from his wide shoulders.

“Good evening, madame,” said Doctor Alcazar in his rich and flexible voice. “You wish to consult me?”

He loomed over his visitor as he bowed, and his lustrous eyes took in every detail of her from head to foot.

Thirty-fivish. Doesn’t look American. Expensive suit, hardly worn. Too tight. Too short. Not hers.

The woman was very nervous. She twisted her bag around in her hands and looked up at Doctor Alcazar.

She said, “Ow, well — maybe I do...”

Aha! British. Cockney. But lived some time in U. S. — hence “maybe” not “p’raps”.

“Then step this way,” said Doctor Alcazar, and having ushered his client into the tent, let fall the canvas doorway, upon the outside of which large white letters announced, IN CONSULTATION.

It was dark inside the tent, which was hung with dusty black draperies, but a nimbus of soft, orange-colored light came from a lamp over the table and chairs which were the only furnishings.

Doctor Alcazar seated his client at one side of the table, placing her chair with courtly precision. Throwing back his cloak, he then took the other chair to face her.

“And now, madame,” said Doctor Alcazar, “do you wish a General Reading? Or — as I myself would recommend in your case — a Special Delineation?”

His visitor’s nervousness seemed to be increasing. She sat on the edge of her chair (which disturbed Doctor Alcazar) and said:

“Well, now, I couldn’t hardly sye.” Her homely face was drawn and puckered with indecision. “Y’see, sir, it’s a private matter — and... and—” Words failed her, and her hands fluttered nervously — to her hat, to her hair, to the cheap brooch at the throat of the ultra-expensive but over-tight blouse.

H’mm. Seamstress’ fingers. “Sir.” Possible housekeeper. More likely lady’s maid.

“Madame,” said Doctor Alcazar, “anything you tell me — anything I may discern about you — is in. the highest degree confidential.” He leaned forward, fixing his compelling gaze upon her. “May I first suggest that you relax, madame. Any undue tension or nervousness disturbs and obfuscates your aura.”

An uncertain titter came from the woman. She said, “I know I’m all upset-like — but I’ll try,” and she sat back in her chair and rested her hands on the arms, leaving her purse on the table.

Doctor Alcazar was relieved. He said, “Excellent!” and then, “We will begin, please, by your giving me some personal possession to hold.” He reached out a hand, palm uppermost. “It is a matter of attaining close contact with your psyche.”

She said, “Ow, I see,” and put both hands up to her throat, as if to unpin the cheap brooch.

This would never do — and Doctor Alcazar said smoothly, “Anything except personal jewelry, madame. Its intrinsically counteractive density tends to adumbrate the necessary metaphysic radiations.”

“Ow... I see—” she said again, and picked her purse off the table, set it on her lap, and opened it.

She was in perfect position beneath the mirror which hung above her, so unobtrusively, in the drapery festooned from the tent-top. Doctor Alcazar leaned back in his chair and through half-closed, mystic eyes saw the contents of the purse in the mirror as her fingers rummaged in it. There were, to his experienced gaze, several items of possible use among the usual feminine litter:

An open change-purse from which protruded the end of a long roll of stamps; half a candy bar with its wrappings carefully folded back; a crumpled, postmarked envelope addressed to Miss Lily Something-or-other-which-began-with-M; and a small neatly-folded piece of violet-colored wrapping-paper tied around with curious string of interwoven green-and-gold strands.

Doctor Alcazar’s client picked out a compact and laid it in his still outstretched hand, and closed her bag.

Doctor Alcazar murmured, “Thank you... Thank you...” and as his long fingers caressed the small enameled case, he began to speak in a remote and vibrant monotone.

“You have,” said Doctor Alcazar, “a most highly sensitized anima, and are therefore a sympathetic subject... You are named for a flower — yes, a lily!... You are a foreigner by birth, but have resided in this country for a considerable time... You have a generous, impulsive nature, but are somewhat handicapped by shyness... Your life is bound up with that of a person of wealth — I think a woman... A great deal of your time is taken up by the traditionally feminine occupation of sewing...”

As the General Reading proceeded, its effect upon Doctor Alcazar’s client grew more and more marked, and when he reached the point at which he informed her that she had “a fondness for candy, a sweet tooth,” she could not contain her astonishment.

“Well I never!” she gasped.

Doctor Alcazar sat upright and fully opened his eyes. He said, “And that, madame, is the General Reading... In the Special Delineation we can go deeper — much deeper. Do you wish to proceed?”

“Ow, yes!” said his client, and now Doctor Alcazar assumed a more expansive position, fixing his unusual gaze firmly upon her face.

“You are troubled about something,” said Doctor Alcazar. “A matter about which you would like to consult me.”

“That’s right,” breathed his client.

“Then, madame,” said Doctor Alcazar, “tell me your problem.”

But he had wrought too well.

“Do I ’ave to?” asked his client. “Don’t you knaow what it is?”

“Hell!” said Doctor Alcazar to himself. “A boomer!” Aloud he said, with noticeable coldness, “I regret that madame feels it necessary to test me further. However...”

He put one hand to his brow — and watched the woman from its shadow — and thought.

Stamps. Paper and string.

He said, “I seem to see letters — correspondence—”

No reaction.

He said, “—but then you are a great letter-writer. Ah! There is something else — a piece of material, is it? No. It’s paper — wrapping-paper. And it’s a strange color — almost violet—”

Ah! On the nose!

He said, “...Strange — I have lost sight of this paper... Something else is taking its place... I can’t quite distinguish it — but there are two colors, interwoven... Green-and-gold, green-and-gold...”

“Coo-er!” breathed his client, and Doctor Alcazar noted that her astonishment was mixed with something else — something very much like fear.

“Now, madame!” Doctor Alcazar was stern. “You have had proof of my powers — and my time is limited. If you wish my advice, state your problem.”

The woman, intensely nervous, was on the edge of her chair again, but now it didn’t matter. She said:

“It’s abaout my mistr — my sister...” Her tongue came out and moistened her lips. “It’s abaout my sister — and her ’usband... Y’see, sir, I’ve jest found aout ’e’s deceivin’ ’er like, an’ I’m the only person what knows.” She gathered impetus now she was fairly launched. “But the funny thing is — an’ it’s why I don’t rightly knaow what to do — the funny thing is that what ’e’s doin’ to deceive ’er is mykin’ ’er ’appy... Naow, my problem, like you call it, is did I oughter tell my sister? Or did I oughter leave well alone. I’m fair bewildered-like, tryin’ to think what to do...”

“You are entangled, madame,” said Doctor Alcazar, placing his elbows on the table and making an arch of his hands, “in a most unusual psychotic web...” His hands slowly raised themselves and covered his eyes. His voice became the throbbing monotone again.

“There are widely differentiated kamas here,” said the monotone. “There are twisted skeins ahead... Two paths before you... They are clouded... I see you taking one — then the other... But what is this? At the end of each path is the same figure, awaiting you... And in this figure lies the solution... You need make no decision — you may follow either path — for the result is the same...”

Doctor Alcazar took his hands from his eyes, sat back in his chair, and rested the hands on its arms. It was a decisive, final attitude, and hardly ever failed to denote the end of a delineation.

But this client was unusual. She stared at Doctor Alcazar, and her mouth began to tremble. She said, “Is that all, sir?” — and Doctor Alcazar, bowing in assent, rose to his feet.

He stepped to the entrance of the tent and raised the door-flap. He cast a glance outside — and saw two possibilities and allowed them to see him.

His current client rose slowly from her chair as he waited for her. She fumbled with her purse, pulling out a crumpled dollar bill. She said, “But couldn’t you tell me what’s going to ’appen, sir. I mean each waylike...”

There were tears in her eyes now and somewhat to his surprise Doctor Alcazar felt faintly sorry for her. He relieved her of the bill and led her to the entrance to the tent.

“Madame,” he said, “I could advise you more fully if you told me the truth, instead of pretending your dilemma concerned your sister.” He checked interruption with an upraised hand. “No accurate reading of the future can be based upon falsehood. Why not return later for another consultation — after you have decided upon frankness?”

She continued to gaze up at him raptly, an excellent advertisement. She breathed, “Oh, thank you, sir! That’s jest what I’ll do!”

And then she said, “I’m sorry abaout not tellin’ the truth, reely I am!” — and hurried away.

Doctor Alcazar looked after her. He wondered, idly, whether he would ever see her again.

He never did.

But three days later, and two hundred miles farther up the coast, he saw a picture of her.

It was a big photograph on the front page of the morning paper, and over it dark heavy letters spelled out Murder Victim. Doctor Alcazar raised his eyebrows and read:

It was at this point in his reading that Doctor Alcazar’s friend and luncheon-host, the Weight-Guesser, jogged him in the ribs and said, “Wanna ’nother barker, Doc?”

Doctor Alcazar didn’t look up, but he said, “Thanks, Avvie,” and devoured the remains on his plate and went on reading.

He came to an end several minutes later, and folded the paper and put it down on the counter by his coffee-cup. He stared at it vacantly.

The little man called Avvie could restrain himself no longer. He said, “What’s eatin’ you, Doc?” and reached out and picked up the paper and unfolded it. “Somep’n here?”

“Um-hmm!” said Doctor Alcazar. “To my ears, Avvie, has come a far-off, delightful crackling of moola. And,” he added, “I mean moola.”

“Huh?” Avvie’s quick brown eyes scurried over the page. “This?” His finger pointed to “$5,000 Reward.”

“Ye-es,” said Doctor Alcazar. “Maybe. But it’s a general scent I’m getting...”

A frown wrinkled Avvie’s small face, and he pointed to Lily Morton’s picture. “Mean ya know who blotted this dame?”

“No,” said Doctor Alcazar. “No, I don’t. But... well, listen to me a minute...”

They reached Los Angeles late that night and took up residence at the Hollyhock Motel. They had a working capital of eighty-two dollars and seventeen cents, seventy-five dollars of which had been supplied by Avvie and the balance by Doctor Alcazar.

They went to bed. They waked early, and made for Hollywood, where Avvie set out for the Public Library and the newspaper-files, and Doctor Alcazar went about other business...

By two in the afternoon they were on their way to Beverly Hills. They traveled in style this time — in a big, black, shiny, Cadillac sedan, the rental of which had grievously reduced their capital.

Avvie was driving, still in his nondescript gray suit, but with a dark-blue, shiny-visored cap surmounting his squirrel-like little face.

Doctor Alcazar sat in the back seat at regal ease, a credit to the Western Costume Company and a very different picture from the be-slacked and sport-shirted figure of the early morning. Doctor Alcazar, to whose lean cheeks the interesting pallor seemed to have returned, wore a loose, dark, expensive-looking suit of faintly old-fashioned cut; around his neck, in place of collar and tie, an elaborate stock of black silk pinned with a single pearl-like stone. And his unfathomable eyes looked out at the world from beneath a wide-brimmed hat of deep-napped black felt, indescribably dashing.

Turning into the quiet magnificence of Fairbanks Drive, Avvie slowed the pace, and leaned out of the window. The house he was looking for was Number 347 — but suddenly, opposite the neo-Spanish portico of Number 345, Doctor Alcazar leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hold it,” said Doctor Alcazar.

“This ain’t it,” Avvie said. “Next one up.”

“Stop, will you!” said Doctor Alcazar and then, when Avvie obediently pulled into the curb, “Those notes you made at the Library? Still got ’em on you?”

“Sure.” Avvie produced a small black notebook and handed it over. “The address is first — then the dope on this Druce—”

“No, no,” said Doctor Alcazar, flipping over the pages. “I want the newspaper stuff — finding the body — all that... Ah! Here it is...” He read rapidly, and then shook his head and looked at Avvie. He said, “I’m going to ask you once more. Are you sure there was nothing, anywhere, about what she had in her pocket-book?”

“Sure I’m sure!” Avvie was aggrieved. “All it said any place was it wasn’t robbery because there was still dough in it.”

Doctor Alcazar shrugged. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay.” And he gave the notebook back.

Avvie shrugged, and drove on to the entrance of Number 347, and through big, wrought-iron gates, and up to the front of a large, white, opulently haphazard house.

Doctor Alcazar descended from the car, looked around him with lordly approval, and ascended the steps. He pressed a bell and turned again to survey the gardens.

The door opened behind him, and he slowly revolved to impel the force of his presence upon a white-coated, vaguely European manservant.

“Mrs. de Vries?” said Doctor Alcazar, with Olympian glance. “Is she at home?” He produced a card, only slightly over-sized, one side of which bore in blackest copperplate the two words Doctor Alcazar. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote upon the reverse side of the card, Concerning Lily Morton.

He handed the card to the servant. He said, “If you would give this to Mrs. de Vries—”

The man looked at the card, then at Doctor Alcazar again. “Will you come in, sir,” he said, and held the big door wider and led Doctor Alcazar across a hallway and ushered him into a long pleasant room, with French windows which looked out upon a flower-framed terrace and a tree-framed pool.

Left alone, he took it all in with a slow and comprehensive sweep of his eyes, and then, as the door opened again, turned to meet the woman who was coming towards him.

She was small and slim and straight, and in the slacks and shirt and sandals she was wearing, her body might have belonged to a girl. But the close-cut hair which lay in tight curls all over her small well-shaped head was iron-gray, and underneath it was a lined and impish little face which made no pretense of disguising what must have been its more than fifty years.

Doctor Alcazar bowed, and unobtrusively his eye swept over her.

H’mm. Friendly. Forceful. Intelligent. But difficult to start. Watch it.

Doctor Alcazar straightened. He said, “Miss Druce—” and caught himself. “I beg your pardon — Mrs. de Vries.”

The elfin face split in an enormous, delightful smile.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Please!” Her voice was surprisingly deep, and ever so slightly husky. “I like to be reminded. In fact, I love it.”

Doctor Alcazar smiled gravely. “It is hard to think of Gloria Druce by any other name...”

The smile began to fade, and Doctor Alcazar became aware that the blue eyes were regarding him shrewdly.

Oh-oh! Not so good. How to start? How to start?

She said, “Thank you, Doctor. You wanted to see me about poor Lily?”

Doctor Alcazar inclined his head.

She said, “What is it, then?” and her tone was changing, not auspiciously. “If you know anything that would help them, you should really have gone direct to the police.”

Bad. Try something. Anything. Maybe—

Doctor Alcazar raised a deprecatory hand. “No, no,” he said. “Please, Miss Dr— Mrs. de Vries! I’m afraid I’m not here to give help — but to ask for it!”

Aha! Jackpot!

There was a quick softening of the blue gaze, and she said, “Oh — I’m sorry... But I’m afraid I don’t understand...”

“How could you?” said Doctor Alcazar. “And it is I who should apologize. For imposing on your kindness—”

The big smile was completely friendly again as she waved him to a chair and perched herself on the arm of a settee and said, “Why not sit down and tell me all about it?”

“Thank you,” said Doctor Alcazar. “Thank you.” He folded his length into the chair and began.

“I should perhaps explain, Mrs. de Vries,” said Doctor Alcazar, “that I am what is sometimes called a Metaphysician — a sort of Professor of the Occult...”

It was a fine story and confident now, he did every word of it justice. It gave his listener several firm impressions, and an extraordinary but (to her, at least) entirely believable history of the events which were supposed to have brought him here. The impressions were, first, that Doctor Alcazar was a genuine and expert prober into the Arcana, second, that he was not now (and never had been) one to turn his gifts and knowledge to financial gain; third, that he himself was much moved and excited over the strange happenstance which had brought him here.

The story itself, freed from its bravura embellishments, ran thus:

Doctor Alcazar, while engaged on “a simple little experiment in behalf of a pupil,” had received a “most unusual interruption to the Kamic stream.” The crystal he had been using at the time had become, suddenly and disturbingly, a battleground between the images from the stream he had deliberately tapped and other images “from a stream unknown.” The battle had been extraordinary, and had lasted for one crowded hour before the “outside, unknown, interrupting force” had been victorious. The images it projected were strong and persistent, and they summed up (really Doctor Alcazar must not waste more of Mrs. de Vries’ time than he could help!) to the total picture of a woman in distress. A woman who was in dire danger, and seeking help...

All that, ran the story, had been two weeks ago; to be precise, fifteen days. Eleven days before Lily Morton’s death. Doctor Alcazar had made a full notation of the singular occurrence in his files and had then put the matter from his mind until yesterday when, at the home of friends in Del Monte, he had chanced to glance at the newspaper and had seen Lily Morton’s photograph upon the front page...

It was at this point that his listener interrupted Doctor Alcazar for the first time.

“And it was the same face!” she said, more in statement than question. “It was Lily’s — Lily’s image you’d seen in the crystal!”

Doctor Alcazar spread his hands. “That is the question, Miss Druce,” he said, “which has brought me four hundred miles to see you.” He paused. “My first impression, on seeing the picture, was that I had seen the same face as that in the crystal. But then—” he smiled a grave smile — “first impressions, after all, are often unreliable. And a true Metaphysician must be as sure of his facts as any Scientist...”

Mrs. Clinton de Vries looked at Doctor Alcazar with wide blue eyes.

“This,” she declared, “is terribly interesting! Absolutely fascinating!” Her gaze clouded, and a look of distress puckered the impish face. “Poor Lily!” She sighed, then gave her straight shoulders an impatient little shake and said briskly, “Well, then, Doctor, what you want are photographs of the poor girl.” She stood up. “I’ll go and—”

“Please!” Doctor Alcazar checked her. “What I would like to do — if you will permit me — is to recount to you, from my memory, a description of the face I saw in the crystal. Then, if I chance to hit upon some... ah... factor or factors known to you but not registered by the camera — well, then we shall be entitled to assume that it was indeed Lily Morton’s Kamic stream which so astonishingly obtruded upon my own.”

“Oh!... Oh, I see!” The blue eyes were concentrated, absorbed. “That’s — wonderful! There couldn’t be any mistake that way, could there?... Yes. Yes. Please do that, Doctor.”

Doctor Alcazar covered his eyes with one graceful hand and said, slowly and in a dim, faraway sort of voice which was first cousin to the booming monotone that so frequently was heard in the small black tent:

“I saw in the crystal — a woman... Part of her form, but dimly. But I saw her features clearly. Clearly...”

Drawing upon his memory, which was indeed prodigious, Doctor Alcazar gave a minute and detailed description, suitably intoned and punctuated for this semi-mystic occasion, of the homely English face he remembered staring at him across his table. When he had finished, he slowly lowered the hand from his eyes, shook his head slightly as if to clear it, and looked interrogatively at Mrs. Clinton de Vries.

She was staring at him, rapt and intent. She said, in a curiously low voice, “Lily! That’s Lily! I think I was sure before you started, Doctor, but when you remembered things like the little mole under her ear, and the gold filling in that tooth—”

She didn’t trouble to finish the sentence. She just went on staring at Doctor Alcazar.

Who now played the card — the dangerous, all-powerful or all-ruinous card — which he had suddenly realized was in his hand.

Doctor Alcazar slowly rose to his feet. He stood towering above the small woman, and bowed over her, and smiled his grave smile, and picked up his hat from the table where it lay.

“Miss Druce,” he said simply, “you have set my mind at rest.”

He said, “I cannot thank you enough for having so graciously given me your time.” He bowed again. She rose slowly, but he pretended not to notice she was rising. He was already turning away, already crossing towards the door with long deliberate strides.

It was an unpleasant moment. It was a series of unpleasant moments.

His hand was actually on the door-latch before she spoke.

She said, from somewhere much closer behind him than he had thought her to be, “Oh, Doctor—”

He turned, his hand still on the latch, and waited with stately courtesy.

She came nearer. She tilted the gray head to one side, looked up at him and said, “Doctor, will you be — what will you — I mean, aren’t you going to try and find out more?”

Aha! The winner and still champion...

Doctor Alcazar permitted a slightly puzzled expression to show upon his face.

He said, “ ‘Find out?’... I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Mrs. de Vries.”

She said, “What I really mean—” and broke off and went on looking up at Doctor Alcazar, smiling her enormous smile again.

“Now, you give me some time,” she said. “Come back and sit down, please.”

Doctor Alcazar did as he was bidden. He chose a chair nearer the French windows, and his hostess leaned against the edge of the desk nearby and looked down at him.

“Now look,” she said with a sort of bright-eyed bluntness, “although I’ve always wanted to believe what Hamlet said to Horatio was right, I’ve met so many phoneys in my time I haven’t had a chance...”

She came away from the desk and crossed to Doctor Alcazar’s chair. There was a tremendous earnestness about her. “They’re always trying to chisel,” she said. “And they never prove anything!... But you’ve done something in ten minutes none of them ever did — you’ve convinced me!”

“I am honored,” murmured Doctor Alcazar.

“Suppose,” she said, “suppose you deliberately worked at — what would you call it? — getting in touch with Lily again! And suppose you succeeded!... Don’t you think it’s possible you might be able to find out who killed her?”

“H’mm...” Doctor Alcazar pondered this apparently startling question. He said, “But surely the police—”

“Pah!” said Gloria Druce. “They haven’t got anywhere — and they never will!” She sighed. “I don’t suppose we can blame them really, though. God knows this must be outside their ken! I tell you, Doctor, that poor girl didn’t have an enemy in the world. Her whole life’s been wrapped up in mine ever since I first employed her in London umpteen years ago. That may sound conceited, but it’s true.”

She stopped again, abruptly, and fixed Doctor Alcazar with a penetrating eye. She said, “Well — will you try?”

Doctor Alcazar’s long white hand rubbed reflectively at his long white jaw. He said slowly, after due interval:

“It’s an interesting idea, Miss Druce...” He permitted a twinkle to come into the dark eyes. “In its way, too, it’s a sort of challenge...” He thought some more. “But I think I should warn you — it is most unlikely to succeed.”

“But you’ll try!” She beamed at him and then said briskly, “Wonderful! When do we start? And where?”

“Well,” he said, “before I could attempt to get in touch, I should require some — some personal belonging, constantly used, of the unfortunate Miss Morton’s. Some—”

“I know.” She couldn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. “And all her things are upstairs. What would you like?”

Doctor Alcazar was still reflective. He said, “Something she used recently — the more recently the better...”

“That’s easy! I’ve got everything she had when — when it happened. The police sent them back because there weren’t any fingerprints or anything.”

“Oh — really?” Doctor Alcazar sternly repressed eagerness. “Would her purse — her handbag — be among these effects?”

The pretty gray head nodded vigorously. “With everything in it — even her money, poor girl.”

“Then,” said Doctor Alcazar, “if I could have something out of it... Anything...” And then he said, as if in afterthought, “No, no. Perhaps it would be better if I could have the bag itself...”

She said, “Of course you can!”

It was, actually, only fifty seconds before she was back, holding out to Doctor Alcazar, as he rose to meet her, a purse of imitation crocodile — a purse which he remembered.

He took it in his hands and said, “Thank you... thank you...” His eyes closed, he turned it over and over, his long fingers seeming to sense its texture.

He shook his head. He murmured, “No... no—” and opened his eyes. He said, “You permit me—?” and crossed to the desk and opened the bag and gently tipped its contents out onto the blotter.

He stood staring down at the heterogeneous litter and picked out with his eye, first the candy-bar, a good bite or two smaller than when he had last seen it; next the change purse, still with the roll of stamps projecting from it; next the envelope addressed (he could see now) to Miss Lily Morton...

String and paper gone. As expected. As hoped. Something to work on. Get busy.

Doctor Alcazar picked out the small enameled compact. He said, “This might do very well,” in a low, murmuring voice, and stood upright with the little case in his hand, his fingers moving constantly over its smooth surface. His remarkable eyes were closed, and his striking head flung back.

He came to, as it were. He opened his eyes, and he looked down at the compact in his hand. He said, “Yes... Yes... With your permission, Mrs. de Vries, I will take this with me,” and slid it into a side-pocket of his coat.

She said, “Oh! Aren’t you going to stay and— No. You’ll have to have your crystal, of course.”

Her face had fallen like a disappointed child’s — which made matters even simpler than Doctor Alcazar had expected.

“I will indeed,” said Doctor Alcazar, with one of his gravest smiles. “However, I happen to have it in my car; so I could, if you wish, make preliminary studies here and now.”

“Oh — wonderful!” She was alight again. “I’ll ring for Josef.”

Doctor Alcazar raised a gently protesting hand. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I will go myself. I don’t allow anyone else to handle it — even my own man...” With a little bow he strode to the door, and opened it, and passed out of the room.

He crossed the hall, and opened the big door, and went quickly down the steps towards the Cadillac. He called, “Dupois! Dupois!” — and Avvie jumped out of the driver’s seat, and said, “Yes sir?”

Doctor Alcazar came up to the car and while Avvie held the door, leaned in and fumbled with the glove compartment.

Doctor Alcazar said softly, out of the side of his mobile mouth, “I’ll see you get inside. I want dope on Clinton,” and then straightened and stood away from the car, holding something wrapped in a chamois-leather bag.

He returned to the house. As he stepped into the hallway, he saw the man servant entering the long room with a tray upon which were glasses and decanters.

His hostess came to meet Doctor Alcazar. “Suppose we have a drink?” she said.

“That,” said Doctor Alcazar, “would be delightful.” And then he added, with graceful hesitance, “I wonder whether I might impose still more on your kindness, Miss Druce? On behalf of my chauffeur. He has been driving all day, and—”

“But of course!” She turned quickly and said, “Josef will you see that Doctor Alcazar’s man has anything he wants?”

“Yes, Madam,” Josef said, and very soon was seen through the window by Doctor Alcazar, leading Avvie away around the corner of the house.

Much gratified with the course of events, Doctor Alcazar, having handed his hostess her glass, took a big and grateful draught from his own...

It was nearly an hour later when he pushed his chair back from the desk, sighed wearily, and peered at Gloria de Vries through the bluish dusk they had produced in the room by lowering all the blinds.

In front of him on the desk, glittering softly in the light of the single lamp, was the small crystal globe which the chamois leather had covered. He drew a hand wearily across his brow. He said, “There’s nothing... nothing...”

He opened his other hand and laid down Lily Morton’s compact. He said, “I am wasting your time, my dear lady... wasting your time...”

She said, in a kind of vehement whisper, “Oh, don’t give up yet! Please don’t!”

“As you wish,” said Doctor Alcazar bravely. He turned in his chair, picked up the compact in his left hand, shaded his eyes with his right hand, and hunched once more over the glittering ball of the crystal...

And once more there was silence...

But not for long this time. Suddenly, Doctor Alcazar’s whole body seemed to grow tense and he said, in a hushed yet urgent voice:

“Ah! Here is something!... The crystal is clouding...”

His left hand, gripping the dead woman’s compact, raised itself from the table, seemed to hover close to his temple. He said:

“Ah! The mists are clearing... I see — is it a figure, a woman’s figure? I cannot be sure... No — it is gone... All I see is — a big post standing in the ground. There is something coiling around the post — a serpent, is it?... No. It is something being coiled around the post, by unseen hands... Ah! It is a rope — a strange rope — oddly colored — with interwoven strands of green and gold...”

No reaction. But keep on trying.

“...The mists are clearing, clearing... The colors of the rope are vivid, very vivid... There is a strange light over everything... The post itself is colored — a peculiar, almost violet shade... The contrast between the violet of the post and the green-and-gold of the rope is striking...”

A small, quickly stifled “Oh!” of astonishment came from the shadows to Doctor Alcazar’s left. He bent lower over the crystal.

“The image is growing brighter. The mists have gone... But still I see only the rope and the post... Wait... wait! There is something strange about the post. It doesn’t look like timber at all now. It looks — it looks— But I cannot see — the light is fading. The mists are closing in again...”

Doctor Alcazar sat back in his chair, his shoulders sagging.

“I am sorry,” he said wearily. “The image has faded...” He smiled sadly. “But I feel impelled to tell you, Mrs. de Vries, that I think we were being — misled, shall I say?”

“Misled?” The small woman was staring at Doctor Alcazar with extraordinary intentness. “Because what you saw wasn’t anything to do with Lily?”

“Exactly.” Doctor Alcazar sighed again.

She jumped to her feet and came close to him. She said, “It was wonderful, all the same! It wasn’t about Lily — but it was about me!”

Doctor Alcazar frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She said, “Wait!” — and went quickly across to a corner and flipped on another light, bent down and opened a cupboard beneath a bookshelf, and took something from it which she held behind her back as she marched towards him again.

“Look!” she said, and whipped her hand from behind her and held under Doctor Alcazar’s eyes a roll made up of many sheets, obviously smoothed-out after use, of violet-colored wrapping-paper tied around with multiple windings of green-and-gold string.

Doctor Alcazar sat straight in his chair. He took the roll of paper from her with a murmured, “Permit me,” and held it under the light of the desk-lamp where he studied it with wondering concentration.

Doctor Alcazar said, “Yes... Yes...” and looked at her. He said, “Your psychic projection must be strong — enormously strong!” He eyed the paper and string again. “Has this any particular significance, Mrs. de Vries? Any — emotional meaning?” He reached out and switched on the other desk-lamp, so that he could see her face.

An odd change came over it. She smiled — but it was a different sort of smile. A shy smile, like the smile of an embarrassed girl. She said, “Well... yes, I suppose it has. In a way...” And then she said, “I’m going to tell you all about it. It’s nothing to do with poor Lily — but it’s so amazing, so extraordinary the way it... it sort of popped in!... It’s all to do with George.”

“George?” said Doctor Alcazar. “That is your husband’s name — middle name?”

“No, no! George is — an old admirer of mine. Of Gloria Druce’s — not Gloria de Vries’...”

Doctor Alcazar smiled — and waited.

“But — I’ve never seen him! I don’t even know his name. ‘George’ is just what I call him.” She took the roll from Doctor Alcazar’s hand. “This paper and string is what he always wraps my presents in... It’s really quite romantic — that’s all I get from him, gifts. There’s no note with them, ever; no address; nothing! Except in the very first one — that was about two years ago — there was an old program for The Green And The Gold, with a picture of me on the front when I first played it in New York... That’s how I knew he was an admirer...”

She looked at Doctor Alcazar and her smile faded, and she said, almost somberly, “You don’t know how much it means to an old actress, Doctor, when someone remembers...”

“Yes,” said Doctor Alcazar. “Yes...” He said, “What sort of gifts does he send you?”

“Oh...” She made a little gesture. “All sorts. Books — and perfume — and odd little knick-knacks — everything! And they’re always delightful!”

“No candy?” said Doctor Alcazar, smiling a smile which, in the circumstances, cost him effort to produce.

“Oh, yes! Every third or fourth package. Heavenly liqueur chocolates!” She put the paper down on the desk again and said, in quite a different voice, “But all this is keeping us from poor Lily...”

Doctor Alcazar rose to his feet. He said, “I’m afraid, Mrs. de Vries, that it would be useless just now.” He picked Lily Morton’s compact from the table. “But I will take this, if I may — and resume my efforts tonight, alone...”

In spite of his hostess’ disappointment, he took his leave. He had to.

Doctor Alcazar had detected still more death in the air — and he wanted to think...

It was five thirty when the Cadillac rolled out of the imposing gates and onto Fairbanks Drive.

At five thirty-five, in obedience to directions from Doctor Alcazar, it pulled up only two blocks away, at the far end of a road which petered out in unexpected trees and heath-land.

Doctor Alcazar got out of the car, and so did Avvie who looked around him and said, “Where’s this — and what gives?”

“And you’re the one who read the papers,” said Doctor Alcazar. He took Avvie by the shoulder and pointed to illustrate his words. “That is the back fence of the de Vries property. This road, here, is part of the short-cut Lily Morton took from Sunset Boulevard the night she was killed. This vacant lot, between us and the de Vries’, is the rest of the short-cut. And that tree—” he pointed to a lone, tall, twisted eucalyptus — “marks the spot where she was killed!... Now clam up — and let me alone.”

Doctor Alcazar then strode away from Avvie and the car. His eyes turning this way and that, he walked all around the little strip of barren earth — and then, making his way to the tree, stood underneath it, looking up as if he were studying its branches.

And then he came back to the car. He got into it and said, “Okay,” to Avvie and leaned back on the cushions.

“That’s great!” Avvie turned to regard him sourly. “Where to now — the morgue?”

Doctor Alcazar seemed deep in thought. He said vaguely, “No — to eat. There used to be a little place on Pisanta Street. Mexican. Good. Very reasonable...”

The little place was still there and an hour later Avvie finished his last tortilla, refilled his coffee-cup, and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, Doc,” he said, “when d’ya start talkin’?”

Doctor Alcazar lit a cigarette. He said, “After you have,” and grinned at Avvie. “So — what gives with Clinton de Vries, Esquire?”

Avvie said, “Gotta lotta stuff — but I don’t know if it helps. Clint’s around forty — forty-five. From a picture I seen, he goes around a hundred an’ sixty-two. Bin married to the dame around five years. Makes like a playboy some — but a right guy by the general concentrus. Him and the missus rub along okay, but no heart-throbs: he’s got the polo horses, she’s got the dough.”

Avvie picked up a fork and began to probe at a hindmost molar. But he put the fork down almost at once and looked at Doctor Alcazar again.

“Somep’n I forgot,” he said. “The guy’s got the varicose vein in his leg. Wears one o’ them rubber socks. I seen a spare on the line an’ ast about it.” He began to ply the fork again. “For what it’s worth,” he mumbled.

Doctor Alcazar regarded him with almost avuncular pride. He said, “Avvie, you did a very nice job in the time. But,” he added, “I must ask you one or two questions.”

Avvie finished with the fork and set it down. He said, “Hold it, hold it — I ain’t through yet. Now, as to said Clint’s recent movements: he’s got a cabin up to Big Bear. Went up there the morninga the day this Lily got blotted. The missus called him when they found her next day an’ he come right down to help. It eventuates there’s nothin’ he can do — so he goes right back. Comin’ home tomorra, time for dinner.”

Avvie had finished now. He leaned over the table and took a cigarette from Doctor Alcazar’s pack, lit it, and said through smoke:

“Now make with the questions.” “Avvie,” said Doctor Alcazar, “I don’t have a one! You’ve really covered the ground. But covered it!”

Avvie smiled, a trifle grimly. “It’s your turn, brother,” he said.

Doctor Alcazar had been smiling, but now his face was set and somber. He said, “We came down here to try and horn in on a five grand reward for finding who killed Lily Morton...”

He said, “Well, I’ve found that out. But I’ve found out some more too. The same guy’s going to kill somebody else. He didn’t want to kill Lily Morton. But he had to. Because Lily Morton had tumbled onto something which might have stopped him getting away with the murder he was really trying for...”

He said, “This guy’s been working on this other woman for a couple of years — sending her presents. She doesn’t think they come from him; she thinks they come from somebody who used to have a yen for her when she was ace-high on Broadway...”

He said, “The guy’s established the present-sender. The woman’s even made up a name for him. She feels quite safe with anything ‘George’ sends her — especially candy!...”

He said, “But some day, Avvie, she won’t be safe with that candy. Some day that candy’ll be the death of her...”

Doctor Alcazar paused and Avvie looked at him and said, “Aw! Quit talkin’ in riddles, will ya! So the dame’s the de Vries dame—”

“And,” said Doctor Alcazar, “the guy’s the de Vries guy!”

Avvie stared. Avvie shook his head. “Couldn’ta been,” Avvie said. “He was up to Big Bear like I told you.”

Doctor Alcazar regarded him with displeasure. “He couldn’t have been. Because he was around that vacant lot at night, killing Lily Morton. It’s easy. He starts in the morning — and then stashes his car — and lies low — and when it’s dark hangs around that dead-end and waits for Lily. He knows the way she always comes in. And after he’s killed her, off he goes to the mountains, and wakes up in Big Bear in the morning.”

Avvie wriggled in his chair. “How come you’re so surea yourself?” His lip curled. “Get it outa the crystal, did ya?”

“I got it,” said Doctor Alcazar, “from Lily Morton herself. About two hours, I figure, before she was killed.” He stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another.

Avvie stared at him. “How’s that again?” he said.

Doctor Alcazar said, “Lily Morton wanted some advice, Avvie. She knew a woman—” now a very fair replica of the dead woman’s voice came from his mouth — “ ‘whose ’usband was deceivin’ ’er like — on’y what ’e was doin’ to deceive ’er was mykin’ ’er ’appy’... And Lily Morton was the ‘on’y person what knew’... And Lily Morton was ‘fair bewildered-like tryin’ to think what she oughter do’ — tell the woman, or leave well alone...”

Doctor Alcazar said, “She tried to tell me the woman was her sister — but she slipped up at the beginning and started to say ‘my mistress,’ which is what maids in England call the women they work for.”

He paused, and Avvie said, “Doc, you’re reachin’!” and shook his head.

Doctor Alcazar frowned. He said, “No. Listen to this: in her purse, Lily Morton had a peculiar piece of violet-colored wrapping-paper — new — tied up with a bit of peculiar string, green-and-gold. I sprung this on her — and her reaction was worried, maybe frightened. Now, what do I find this afternoon, with Druce? I work on the paper and string because it’s the only real lead I’ve got — and pretty soon I get the whole story of ‘George,’ because this peculiar paper and string is the same as the kind he always uses on the presents...”

He said, “And that’s not all. I found out the paper and string were the only things missing from Lily’s purse when they found her!”

Avvie wasn’t scornful any more. “Goes somep’n like this, huh? ‘George’ must be Clint; when Lily found out he was, Clint blotted her. Which means he must be gonna use ‘George’ to blot the missus — else he wouldn’ta gone to them lengths.”

He looked at Doctor Alcazar, his small brown eyes bright like a bird’s.

Doctor Alcazar beamed. “Terse,” he said. “And concise. And absolutely right. You’ve got a grasp, Avvie — definitely a grasp.”

Avvie drank some coffee in silence. Then he said, “Trouble is, you got nothin’ to pin on Clint. This Lily knew he was ‘George’ — but she ain’t talkin’! You got no proof!”

“Avvie,” said Doctor Alcazar, “you get better and better.”

“And from where I sit,” said Avvie, “we’re looking worse an’ worse.” He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out silver and some crumpled bills, looked at them, and shook his head.

“Lay off,” said Doctor Alcazar reprovingly. “What are you getting at? We couldn’t quit if we wanted to. In the first place, there’s the paramount question of cabbage. We’re surrounded by it, my boy — and we have to pick some... And what about the little Druce? You know, there’s something about her, Avvie.”

“So whatta we do?” Avvie was belligerent. “Pick us a park bench and sit around gettin’ corns; waitin’ for ‘George’ to make up his mind it’s time to send the old lady a strychnine-flavored Popsicle!”

“No,” said Doctor Alcazar slowly. “No. That’s not my idea at all...”

Whatever this idea may have been, it worked so well in its preliminary stages (which were conducted by telephone the next afternoon) that within twenty-four hours Doctor Alcazar was dining at Number 347 Fairbanks Drive, the only guest of Mr. and Mrs. Clinton de Vries.

Mrs. de Vries, who had no idea she had been jockeyed into the position, was plainly delighted to be Doctor Alcazar’s hostess again. And Mr. de Vries, though he made no secret of the fact that he was skeptical of his wife’s attempt to “trail a killer with spooks,” was nevertheless a bland and genial host who, despite the fact that he seemed himself a trifle on the jumpy side, obviously did his charming best to put his visitor at ease.

Mr. de Vries was much younger-seeming than his forty-odd years might have been thought to warrant. He had a fine figure, excellent clothes, a pleasing and forthright manner — and a Rhodes’ Scholar’s charming, amorphic accent. He had drunk, with no visible effect, an astonishing quantity of martinis before dinner, and at the meal was constantly having his wineglass refilled. Towards his wife his manner was courteous and comradely — and (thought Doctor Alcazar) rather carefully rehearsed.

Dinner was nearly over before Mrs. de Vries said, suddenly and with emphasis, “I can’t stand all this chattery! I want to talk about Lily!” She looked across the table at her husband. “Clintoh, I can’t help it if you think it’s silly: all I ask is that you don’t try and be funny!” She looked at Doctor Alcazar. “Doctor,” she said, “I can’t wait any longer. You sounded so excited on the phone, I have to know what’s happened!”

Doctor Alcazar smiled blandly at her and then glanced at his host.

“Perhaps Mr. de Vries,” began Doctor Alcazar, and was stopped by a snort from his hostess.

“If Clinton doesn’t like it,” she said, “he can go talk to a horse!” She smiled her wide smile suddenly at her husband. “Sorry, Clint,” she said. “But I did sort of mean it...”

“My dear Gloria,” said Mr. de Vries, “go ahead. Talk about anything you like. Do anything you like.” He smiled at Doctor Alcazar — the merest trifle too friendly a smile. He said, “You understand, Doctor, I’m sure.” He raised his glass to his mouth but went on looking at Doctor Alcazar over its rim — the merest trifle too steadily. “You’ve met plenty of skeptics in your time, I’m sure.” He laughed — the merest trifle too loudly.

Doctor Alcazar laughed too — a rich and muted and mellow laugh. He said, “Mr. de Vries, skeptics are — if I may be permitted the phrase — just my meat...”

He raised his own glass and sipped at it, studying Mr. de Vries.

Nervous. Might be really scared. Hopes I’m a phoney but isn’t sure. Keep at him.

“May I ask,” said Doctor Alcazar, looking at his hostess, “how much you have told Mr. de Vries of our experiment?”

“As much as he’d listen to. About you seeing Lily — and describing her; and then about the paper and string...”

“Ah!” said Doctor Alcazar. “That string! That green-and-gold string!” He looked at Clinton de Vries, as if waiting his opinion.

De Vries hesitated. He played with his wineglass. He said, “Yes — very int’resting. Very int’resting. But—” He didn’t go on.

He doesn’t like it. Keep close, keep punching.

“Indeed, yes,” said Doctor Alcazar. “Very interesting!” His voice had taken on a subtle shade of mysticism, and the eyes he turned on Mrs. de Vries wore the far-off look of a visionary. He said:

“You say I seemed excited when I telephoned you. I was. I had been at work on our problem and I had seen—” he paused, most effectively — “the most extraordinary thing! I had seen — perhaps to you I should say sensed — I had sensed something which made me realize that the green-and-gold string, and the violet paper, were not obtrusions of your psychotic stream, Mrs. de Vries — but truly part of Lily Morton’s!”

Doctor Alcazar sat back in his chair, rested his hands on the table, and turned his striking eyes and their faraway look on his host again.

“I believe,” said Doctor Alcazar, “that the unknown ‘George’ is the murderer of Lily Morton...”

From the end of the table, the little gray-headed woman stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. She was about to speak — but her husband spoke first.

He said, “Good God!” very sharply — and then, too smoothly, “Now that is the most preposterous notion!”

“Clinton!” said Gloria de Vries. She turned to Doctor Alcazar. “But... but... are you sure, Doctor?”

Smiling, Clinton de Vries lifted his glass. But something happened — something went wrong with the movement. The glass slipped from his hand and fell to the table, tilting out a pool of wine and snapping its fragile stem.

“Oh — too bad, too bad!” said Doctor Alcazar, and was busily helpful with his napkin.

Keep close; keep punching.

Doctor Alcazar, his labors over, looked again at Mrs. de Vries. He said, “You ask, am I sure of this strange union of ‘George’ and Lily Morton’s murderer?... To be frank, Miss Dru — Mrs. de Vries, I am not. Not yet. But I do feel convinced that one more evocation of the psychomantic waves will bring—” he shrugged — “either confirmation or the reverse.”

“Oh, Doctor!” She leaned towards him eagerly. “Is there — can you — I mean, couldn’t you do it here?...”

It worked — it worked!

“If you would like that,” said Doctor Alcazar benignly, “I’m sure it could be arranged... Unless, of course, Mr. de Vries has any objection...”

Hold your breath!

“Go ahead, go ahead!” said Clinton de Vries. “Matter of fact, I think I’ll sit in — if you don’t mind.”

A-aah!

“No, no. In fact, quite the contrary,” said Doctor Alcazar.

And less than twenty minutes later, in the long and pleasant room where he had first met Mrs. de Vries, he was once again seated before the desk near the French windows, raptly concentrating upon the small crystal globe before him. Again, the only lighted lamp in the room was the one upon the desk beside him. But this time it was night, and the darkness was real darkness instead of simulated dusk. To each side of him, only just within the faintest outer fringes of the light, sat Mrs. de Vries, to his right — and Mr. de Vries, to his left.

As he sat, Doctor Alcazar’s whole body seemed to grow tense, and he said, in a hushed yet urgent voice:

“Ah! Here is something!... The crystal is clouding...”

His voice grew lower, thicker. It said, slowly, dragging out the words:

“In the mist — a tree. A eucalyptus, bent and gnarled and twisted. Its branches look like hands reaching down... It stands in a patch of wasteland... The mist is closing in and I cannot see... Ah! The crystal is clearing again — but the tree is changing. It is not a tree, it is a post standing upright from the ground. The post that I saw before — violet-colored, and with green-and-gold rope coiling around it... A figure comes up to the post, creeping and furtive. A man’s figure. I can only see his back — the back of the man I have seen in the crystal before. The back of the unknown ‘George’...”

Doctor Alcazar paused, drawing in a deep and sighing breath. He listened, but heard nothing. No sound. No movement.

“The figure is uncoiling the rope from the post. In his hands the rope becomes cord... He is tearing down the post, and in his hands it becomes paper — sheet upon sheet of wrapping-paper, violet-colored. As he folds it, his shoulders shake. I cannot see his face, but I know that he is laughing. An evil, gloating, malevolent laugh. He is planning evil; evil to someone associated with this strangely-colored string and paper...

“The image is changing again. It is a room — a familiar room — this room! The morning sun streams through the windows. There is no one here. But on the desk — on this desk! — is a package. A package wrapped in violet paper and tied with green-and-gold string...”

Again Doctor Alcazar paused, and now he heard movements from his audience. Little shiftings and twitchings.

He bowed lower over the glittering little globe in front of him and said, the eerie monotone deepening:

“Someone is entering the room. A woman. Gloria. She comes to the desk. She examines the package. She tears off the wrappings, delighted.

“Ah! be careful, Gloria! You think this is a gift sent with love — but it is a gift sent with cold and deadly purpose... A gift which is meant, like all its forerunners, to lull you into a sense of false security... There is a mordant, miasmic aura surrounding that package, Gloria! One day — some day, any day — a package like this will come, and you will be happy about it, and trustful — but it will spell your death...”

From the shadows on the right came the sound of a woman’s voice; a startled formless little sound.

“...The image changes... Another room — and Lily is here, Lily Morton... She is staring in amazement at something she has found. String — green-and-gold string. And paper — violet-colored paper... They are unused; that is why she is astonished. Finding them here has shown her the identity of ‘George’...

“The knowledge troubles her. She doesn’t know what to do. She takes a small piece of the paper, a little coil of the string...

“She is gone... But now comes the image of ‘George’ again... Still I cannot see his Lice. He is staring after Lily. He knows she has discovered him...

“Now he is beneath the twisted tree again. It is stark and gaunt against the night sky. He is waiting... He hears approaching footsteps. Lily’s footsteps. He tenses. Lily approaches. He leaps at her, strikes...

“Lily is motionless — a lifeless, crumpled heap upon the ground. He bends over her body, searching. He finds her handbag. He opens it — takes something from it with his gloved hands... What has he taken? I cannot see... Yes — it is the little roll of violet-colored paper, bound with the green-and-gold string.”

Doctor Alcazar stopped. And waited. He had heard another movement — a sharp rustle — from his left. And a hissing intake of breath.

He’s going. He’s back on his heels. What to use for the knockout?... Ah!

Doctor Alcazar shifted in his chair. Growing excitement appeared to have seized him. His hands gripped the desk-top as his eyes stared down at the globe.

“...He is stealing away... If only I could see his face!... He is limping a little. His leg is paining him, aching. He puts his hand down to it, seeming to adjust something beneath his trouser-leg...”

An odd little cry from the right, a strangled cry of panic-stricken astonishment.

No sound from the left.

“...Ah! He is turning! At last we are going to see his face! He—”

The click of a switch — and the room was flooded with light.

“All right, that’s enough!” The voice that came out of Clinton de Vries was harsh and high-pitched. “Stay where you are. Both of you. Don’t move.”

He was standing — and there was a gun in his hand, squat and black and ugly. His face was a dirty gray color, and his eyes were glazed and bright. He looked at Doctor Alcazar and said, “You heard me. Keep still.” He looked at the hunched, frozen immobility of his wife and said, “You. Get up. Open the safe and takeout the money you put there this morning.”

Doctor Alcazar looked at the French windows. The curtains over them billowed and Avvie stepped into the room. The coat of his non-commital gray suit was tightly buttoned, and his brown felt hat was pulled low on his forehead. His right hand was in his side pocket, grasping a gun.

As de Vries wheeled, Avvie moved forward. “Okay, de Vries,” he snapped. “That’ll do. You’d better drop the pistol.”

He moved steadily across the room, a courageous little man. He said, “I got a warrant for you here,” in the same dry, crackling voice, and then stopped abruptly.

An extraordinary sound had come from the throat of de Vries — an insane, animal sound. His lips rolled back from his teeth and his mouth opened, wide.

His hand flashed up and thrust the muzzle of his gun into his mouth, pointing upwards.

There was an oddly muffled report — and a mess — and no more Clinton de Vries...

Avvie sat in the dimmest corner of the little bar-room. His fingers drummed incessantly on the stained table top, and he kept glancing at the door...

It opened for the twentieth time — and admitted the tall and lean and imposing form of Doctor Alcazar, who paced slowly towards his friend, drew up a chair, sat down, put a hand inside his coat, and slowly pulled out his wallet.

From the wallet he drew an oblong, blue-tinted slip of paper, and turned it so that Avvie could see its face.

Avvie’s eyes opened, very wide. He swallowed. He said, “Ten G’s!” without knowing he’d spoken.

Doctor Alcazar folded the check, put it back in his wallet, and turned and called an order to the barman. An impressive order.

Avvie said, “What we gonna do?” His voice was still hoarse with shock. “Split an’ quit?”

Doctor Alcazar eyed him reprovingly. “My dear Avvie!” he said. “Our hard-gotten gains might, of course, be used to found The Alcazar College of Psychic Research...

“On the other hand,” said Doctor Alcazar, “they could be used to set us up in business...”

“Howzat?” Avvie said. “Whaddya mean — business?”

“The business,” said Doctor Alcazar, “of Private Investigation... You type a report and they give you a century — but you look in the crystal and they give you ten grand!”