No Coffin for the Corpse

Chapter Seven: Haunted House

Kathryn’s description of the ghost was, to me, just a bit anticlimactic. Its effect on Wolff, Dunning, and Anne had led me to expect something a bit more in the Gothic manner, a pale, gibbering, wraithlike phantom, or some monstrous evil shadow of impalpable terror out of Bulwer-Lytton, James, or Machen. Later, when I found out what had been in Wolff’s mind, and in Anne’s and Dunning’s, I realized that the ghost was all anyone could desire — and then some.

I didn’t know what Merlini thought of the apparition as described, but I knew he wasn’t going to be able to resist it. Kay had given him so much else besides — a strange disappearance, poltergeist phenomena in carload lots, and a problem that paralleled the underwater coffin escape. If Francis Galt’s search of the house had been thorough — and he’d had plenty of experience along those lines — and if the ghost was anything other than the ectoplasmic shade it pretended to be, then it had somehow escaped a house guarded as securely as though it too, like the coffin, had been bolted and submerged under water.

Merlini frowned up at the empty stage, then glanced again at Kay. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. The show, on the dizzy edge of financial disaster, needed his undivided attention. And yet, the story she told was every bit as tempting as any that Scheherazade had ever left unfinished.

“And still,” he asked, “there’s no sign of the missing boatkeeper?”

Kay shook her head, scowling. “No. None. And Dad flatly refuses to report it. He won’t, or pretends he won’t, believe that anything can have happened to Scotty. But he protests a little too much. I think he knows more than he’ll admit about what’s going on out there. And whatever it is, he’s scared to death of it. I’m afraid that—” Her voice trailed off as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was she feared.

“I do wish,” Merlini said slowly, “that this ghost had picked some other house to haunt. I put the skids under one of Dudley Wolff’s ghosts once, and he didn’t like it at all. He wouldn’t let me touch any haunt of his with a ten-foot pole. And he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead with any of his folding money invested in a show that I—”

“But,” Kay objected, “don’t you see? It’s different this time. He’s not afraid you might expose the ghost as a fake; he’s scared that no one can. And he’s so sure it’s the real thing he’ll jump at the chance to show you up, to make you admit that ghosts can be made of something besides cheesecloth.”

“Maybe so, but your father is a solid mass of sales resistance. If he’s as sold on this ghost as you say, there’s only one way to change his mind. I’d have to catch the spook and deliver it up, tied securely hand and foot, with a doctor’s affidavit swearing that it was thoroughly alive and kicking and not the least little bit dead. Not only that, but I’d have to come up with neatly dovetailed, watertight, ironclad solutions to the half-dozen secondary puzzles you’ve served up. Even then I’d get an argument. I did last time. Proving Dudley Wolff wrong is no way to induce him to invest money in—”

Kay didn’t give up easy. “But Dad’s a gambler,” she countered. “Suppose I can get him to cover that challenge money with some of his own? That’ll get you ten grand—”

“Or,” Merlini said unhappily, “lose it. Half that challenge money was put up by the American Scientist. The other five grand is, or was, mine. I’m afraid that I had to — well, put it into the show. And now you pop up and calmly suggest still another way for me to risk losing it!”

“It’s also a chance,” Kay insisted, “your only chance to get the backing you’ve got to have.”

Merlini thought about it a minute. Then, still doubtful, he looked at me. “Ross, if you ever marry her, let this be a warning. She doesn’t seem to be able to take no for an answer.”

The way Kay had been pretending that I wasn’t there would have told a blind man that our diplomatic relations were strained. Merlini was far from blind. If he smelled a mouse and hoped, with this statement, to flush him out into the open, he succeeded. It was the chance I had been waiting for. I grabbed it.

“I’m not taking no for an answer either,” I said. “Not until I’ve got one or two things off my chest.” I vaulted the back of my seat, sat down in the row behind next to Kathryn, and talked fast.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I’ve worked overtime at it. But your loving father and his trusty henchmen have sidetracked all phone calls, letters, and telegrams. Suspecting that, I went all the way to Florida hoping to break through the censorship, storm the defenses, and see you in person.

Kay frowned. She didn’t seem very convinced. “You thought I was there?”

“It looked that way. Phillips insisted you were out of town, and I discovered that your father had taken four seats on the Miami plane. Then later, when I got a wire from Miami signed with your name—”

“A wire? Signed with my name?”

“Yes. It was your father’s heavy hand trying to misdirect me. He figured that if I thought you were in Miami, I wouldn’t be looking for you in New York. The wire told me to go soak my head. You didn’t send it, but you act as if those were your sentiments. Are they?”

She seemed uncertain. “Then you didn’t get my note?”

“No. Except for that telegram, I haven’t had one single solitary—”

“But I wrote one. Sunday morning just before we left for the airport. I told you where to reach me. I said, Come back. All is forgiven. But when I didn’t get as much as a postcard in reply—”

“You thought the same things I did. You didn’t mail the note in person, did you?”

“No. I gave it to Phillips. Oh damn!”

“Damn is inadequate. Phillips merely obeyed orders. The famous Wolff efficiency never fails. Your father deserves to have ghosts in his hair. I hope they bite.”

Her hand grasped mine. “Yes, Ross, he does. Only not this one. It’s not some harmless practical joke. It’s serious, deadly serious, and I–I don’t like it at all.”

I had to agree there. “It doesn’t look much like a joke from here. It’s too elaborate. Someone is taking far too many pains.” I turned. “Merlini—”

He stood up. “If you can fix it so that I’m not thrown out on my ear the minute I set foot in the house—”

“I will,” Kay promised quickly. “I’ve got to. Can you come now?”

“No. There are a million things I’ll have to do here first. Besides, you’d better go ahead and smooth the way.”

“Smooth some for me too,” I said. “I’m sitting in on this.”

Kay objected. “Ross, be reasonable. I’m no magician. If you show up hell will pop.”

“It’s popping now. You’re afraid of what may happen out there. If you’re going to park yourself right in the line of fire, I’m coming. Then too, if I can help lay the haunt, maybe Dudley will relent a bit and stop growling at me like a cement mixer.”

“It’s impossible. You’ll never get past Phillips. And there’s no way that I can get you in. I’m no magician.”

“We’ll leave that to Merlini. He is a magician. I’ll go as his first-assistant ghost exterminator and he can insist that my services are indispensable. When the big bad wolf huffs and puffs, thinking it’s just a gag so I can get to see you, you enter on cue from left center, register surprise, disdain, and general haughtiness. Make him believe that his highhanded censorship of the mails has been successful. You haven’t heard from me and don’t care now if you never do again. He’ll like that so well he’ll let me stay just so he can watch me squirm.”

“Darling,” Kay said. “You’re crazy.”

“Sure. Crazy about you. If it doesn’t work, I’ll improvise something. Never burn your bridges until you come to them.”

Merlini made a prediction. “Tonight is going to be interesting, whatever happens. I can see that.”

I made a prediction too. “Tomorrow night is going to be even more interesting.”

Kay said, “Tomorrow night?”

“Yes. I’ve reconsidered your proposal of marriage. The answer is yes. And immediately, before you disappear again.”

“This sounds like my cue,” Merlini said quickly. “I’ll see you later, Ross. Say nine o’clock at the shop.” He started off, then, over his shoulder, added, “I don’t want to spoil your fun but there’s a four-day wait in this state after you apply for a license. Didn’t you know?”

“Damn! You would have to remember something like that.” I looked at my watch. “Come on, Kay. We’ve just got time to make City Hall before it closes.”

But Kay was not enthusiastic. “Ross,” she said quietly. “I’ve reconsidered too. The proposal has been withdrawn.”

“It’s what?”

“It’s lapsed. I’ve been thinking it over. You were right. We can’t swing it now. Dad meant it when he promised to cut me out of his will. And until you get a job—”

“That’s easy. I’ve got one. Merlini just hired me. The salary may not run to mink coats, but—”

“It wouldn’t have to. I’d rather have you than a mink. But neither your job nor mine will have any salary attached unless the show opens. It won’t open unless Dad backs it, and if he ever suspects that doing that would help us to—”

“He won’t. Not until it’s too late. In his presence we glare at each other and don’t speak. But off stage—” I leaned over and kissed her quickly. When I discovered that there were no objections, I repeated the maneuver at greater length.

“Ross,” she said finally, “you talk too much. Why didn’t you think of that argument sooner?”

“Convinced?”

“Maybe. If we catch the ghost. If Dad backs the show. If our jobs pay off.” She stood up. “And, if I’m going to sell Dad that bill of goods, I’d better begin starting now.”

“Stop iffing,” I said as we went out to where her car was parked. “It’s a cinch. Boy meets girl, boy chases ghost, boy gets girl. At least it’s different.”

“Yes,” she said, “it will be if ghost gets boy.”

She said it lightly, but she didn’t fool anyone. Underneath she was far too serious. I was myself, for that matter, though I’d been trying not to show it. I knew that any ghost that had Dudley Wolff on the ropes was going to prove to be something special. I didn’t think I was going to like the critter much when I met it. I didn’t.

It was almost ten before Merlini could get away. And by then I was really bothered. I took the wheel, prayed that whatever traffic cops were abroad would be looking the other way, and stepped on the gas. Merlini tried to fold his six-foot length into a comfortable sleeping position on the back seat.

“Whipping up a Broadway show,” he said, “is one of the things that doth murder sleep. Investigating haunted houses is another. I’m going to get forty winks while I can. Wake me when you sight land.”

“No you don’t,” I protested. “Not just yet. There’s one thing I want to know first. How come you’re in Dudley Wolff’s little black book, too? What was this ‘last time’ you and Kay mentioned?”

“Oh that wasn’t anything much. Dudley and I had a little argument about some ectoplasm. He lost. He didn’t like it much. That’s all. Be quiet and let me—”

“No. Any time Wolff loses an argument that’s news. I want to hear about it. Come on. Give.”

He answered with a snore. I flicked the radio switch on the dashboard, got a news broadcast, and turned the volume on full.

“All right, Ross,” he said. “If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ve got a question too. Give me the answer and I’ll tell you the story.”

I turned the radio off. “Sure. Let’s have it.” I spoke too soon and said too much. I knew I had been doublecrossed as soon as he began.

“A man is rowing upstream,” he said. “He passes two mile markers. At the second his hat blows off into the river. But he isn’t very quick-witted and doesn’t notice his loss until ten minutes later. Then he turns around and rows back to retrieve the hat. He fishes it out of the water at the first mile marker. His name was J. Wellington Sloop and the hat was size 7⅜. Wake me when you’ve figured out the speed of the current.”

“Sold,” I groaned. “And down the river too.” I didn’t even try to dope out the answer. I had heard Merlini propound puzzles before. They were always hand-picked stickers. I flipped the radio switch again.

“Ross,” he objected. “You gave me your word of honor. You promised—”

“I know you,” I replied. “I had my fingers crossed. Give up?”

“Yes. You win. Turn off that infernal machine.”

I obeyed. He said, “The speed of the current can be obtained by simply—”

“Hey! I don’t give a damn about the current speed under an escaped lunatic in a rowboat. I want to know—”

“You and your single-track mind! All right. Remember Jeanne Veiller?”

I nodded. “The name’s familiar, but I don’t place the face.”

“She was Dudley Wolff’s 1934 candidate for the psychic Pulitzer Prize: She specialized in ectoplasmic forms. Best grade too. She produced ’em at the drop of a hat and under the most rigid test conditions. Wolff and Galt gave her a thorough going over, applied all the usual tests for fraud and a lot of new ones. Result: negative. And then, finally, they climbed way out on a limb and announced that the ectoplasm was the genuine McCoy. Francis Galt knows a thing or two about mediumistic monkeyshines and his okay isn’t easy to get. Jeanne knew that, and she figured that if she got a passing grade from him she could do as well with any tests I might think up. So she put in a claim for the American Scientist challenge money.”

I began to remember some of the headlines now. “She came close to getting it, too, didn’t she?”

“Yes. Too close for comfort. I was on the spot. Every spiritualist in the country was grinning from ear to ear, baying at my heels, and ready to laugh out loud if I failed to upset the psychic applecart. I went over the séance photos Galt had taken with a fine-toothed magnifying glass at least a dozen times before I found anything that even looked like a clue — a faint dark line along the edge of one ghost form that looked suspiciously like a selvage.”

“Meaning that the ectoplasm really was all wool and a yard wide?”

“Yes, but not wool. Cheesecloth, the old standby. The trouble was that Galt had searched the lady so thoroughly that producing cheesecloth was nearly as good a trick as producing the real thing in ectoplasm. It was a better trick than taking a rabbit from a hat. She seemed to be doing it without a hat. I had to find out where she was hiding it. I went through all the motions Galt had gone through. I saw to it that she disrobed completely in the presence of a medical man who gave her a thorough physical search. He signed an affidavit swearing that she wasn’t hiding as much as a hairpin on her person. Then she went into a bathing suit that had been supplied by the committee and into a séance room where no ectoplasm could have previously been planted because no one even remotely connected with her had been informed of its location until the last minute. The spectators — committeemen, newspapermen, Wolff, and Galt watched from another room, through glass. No one had a ghost of a chance to slip her anything.

“And the ectoplasm showed up right on schedule just the same! She even rubbed it in by producing more than usual. And then, after posing for a few pictures, it dematerialized. She took her rabbit from a top hat and then put it back in again, only she didn’t have a top hat, or did she?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Look, suppose we go back to that one about the lunatic in the rowboat. I’d just as soon—”

“It’s too late now. You asked for this. There were two possibilities. One, the ten-thousand-dollar answer: the ectoplasm was a visible manifestation of spirit substance that came from and returned to an astral fourth-dimensional plane — or something. Two, the answer I seemed to be stuck with: it was still cheesecloth no matter how thin it was sliced, and it came from and returned to some hiding place all the previous investigators, including my doctor, had overlooked. There was such a place, and I knew it. But I also knew I was going to have the devil’s own time getting a look into it. So I tried a spot of misdirection.

“The séance was over. Miss Veiller looked happy and confident. Wolff and Galt were as pleased as Punch. I pretended to look worried. The doctor began taking a few temperature, pulse, and blood-pressure readings in the interest of medical science. And then, when he tipped her head back and began giving her eyes a once-over, I gave Burt the high sign. He wheeled in a portable X-ray machine we had waiting and got a quick candid shot of her midriff.

“That tore it. The photo showed the dark silhouette of a safety pin in her tummy. She had balled up the cheesecloth, held it together with the pin, swallowed it prior to the séance, regurgitated it for its ectoplasmic appearance, then gulped it down again. That was the hat her rabbit came from. What Jeanne hadn’t counted on was the fact that as an ex-circus man I’ve seen quite a few sword swallowers in action. Also human ostriches who swallow lemons, watches, white mice—”

“Uh huh,” I said. “And I can see next day’s headlines: Merlini Can’t Swallow Spooks but Medium Does.”

“Yes. They had a lot of fun with it. Wolff and Galt found themselves neck-deep in the wrong sort of publicity. Inside Story on Exposé. Medium Lunches on Ectoplasm. Wolff and Galt Eat Crow. I felt sorry for them — as much as I could, remembering that if I hadn’t been able to blow the gas the laugh would have been on the other foot.”

“They admitted they’d been bamboozled then?”

“No. Not Wolff. He’d stuck his neck out so far he couldn’t pull it in gracefully. He hinted for publication that the evidence of fraud had been faked, that I had added the pin to the back of the medium’s bathing suit by sleight of hand, and Galt suggested that it could have been double exposed on the X-ray plate. I tried to counter that by asking for another séance and permission to use a stomach pump. Jeanne pretended that she didn’t hear. And that’s why we’ve got such a tough row to hoe tonight. We’ve not only got to catch our ghost with its shroud down, but prove at the same time, with no possible probable shadow of doubt whatever that our evidence isn’t tailor-made for the occasion.”

“Yes, I can see why you might shy away from any ghost of Wolff’s. But, if Kay is right, if he really does want this one laid—”

“He may convince easier. If she’s right. If not, we won’t get past the front door.”

Apparently Kay was right. We did get in, although for a moment it looked very much as though I were coming right back out again. My old pal, Phillips, nodded when Merlini introduced himself. “Yes,” he said, “Mr. Wolff is expecting—”

He hit a snag. The polished regularity of the Phillips features were capable of registering surprise after all. He nearly goggled when he saw me march in behind Merlini. It was quite obvious that I wasn’t included in the expectations.

Working on the theory that offense is the best defense, I said, “Well, fancy seeing you here!”

He played what I was beginning to think was his only record. “Miss Wolff isn’t in.”

“Of course not,” I agreed, handing him my coat and hat. “She’s in Miami, or maybe Iraq. I didn’t come to see her. I have an appointment with a haunt.”

Merlini gave Phillips his things, looked interestedly at the camera that was set up on a tripod facing the stairs, and said, “He’s with me, Phillips. My assistant. It’s quite all right.”

Phillips had his doubts about that, but he didn’t argue. He merely led us to a door on the right of the hall and opened it in the manner of a Roman arena attendant ushering two early Christians in to the waiting lions.

The living-room was nearly as large as an arena, and, with its formally placed, massive Tudor furniture, its dark, oak-paneled walls and heavy-raftered ceiling, about as comfortably inviting as a period room on display in a museum. There were only one or two differences. The neatly lettered cards reading Do Not Touch were missing from the chair seats; the dim half-light with its gloomy shadows had been replaced by a white glare as bright as that in a photographer’s studio; and Dudley Wolff was there.

Kay was there too, and Francis Galt. But it was Wolff who held my attention. The change in the man was astonishing. His familiar scowl was present, but all his characteristic self-confidence had vanished. His head, as we entered, jerked around with an abrupt nervous movement. His glance and gesture were uncertain and apprehensive.

Then he saw me. For a moment his rigid, uncompromising self-assurance almost returned. His shoulders straightened and his jaw pushed out belligerently. But the explosion that came wasn’t up to the usual Wolff standard. He glanced once across at Kay, hesitated perceptibly, and then, when he spoke, there was a thin shaky edge to the deep vigorous rumble of his voice.

“You again? Dammit, why can’t I turn around in my own house without—”

Merlini pretended surprise. “Oh, you know Mr. Harte? I took the liberty of bringing him to assist—”

Wolff’s manners hadn’t improved. He turned his back on Merlini and faced Kathryn. “So. This is what was behind your suggestion? This is why—”

Kay stuck her chin out too. “I didn’t invite Mr. Harte,” she said truthfully enough. “If I wanted to see him I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to do it here. You might credit me with some intelligence.”

Wolff glared at us both for a moment, uncertainly. Then he strode across to the table in the center of the room and his hand reached toward a row of pushbuttons. My plan wasn’t working at all. I dropped it and tried another.

“I came out here on business,” I said quickly. “I offered to assist Merlini because I’m working again, and I want an interview. But not with your daughter or with you. I want one with your ghost.”

Wolff’s thumb jabbed at a button. I talked faster, trying to get in a last argument before the strong-arm boys arrived.

“I’ve already got enough facts for a story, one that’ll make a dull and sickening thud when it lands on page one. If man bites dog is news, think what Ghost Bites Wolff will be. Think what Winchell will do to it. What well-known munitions magnate in black-sheep’s clothing isn’t half as worried about the current Senatorial Investigation as he is about hearing things that go bump in the night? Is the spook of Wolff’s manor oke or hoke? You don’t want that, or do you?”

Wolff glowered. “And what do I do about it?”

“We might trade. You give me a break and I’ll give you one.” Behind me I heard the door open.

It didn’t work. Dudley Wolff may have been scared, but not of me. “No reporter,” he growled, “is going to blackmail—”

As Wolff’s glance turned toward the door, his voice came to such an abrupt halt that I whirled around half expecting to see the ghost creeping up on me from behind. Dunning stood there, just inside the door, his pale face at least two shades lighter. His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Someone,” he said with a rush, “has forced a case in the gun room. There are four guns missing. And—”

He hesitated. The silence was absolute and the interval before he spoke again seemed endless.

“Four guns,” he added finally, “and cartridges to fit!”