Solomon's Stone

Chapter XI.

"It looks," remarked Alicia, "as though it ought to be haunted."

Nash agreed. The place he had rented was not a real castle, but a square two-story brick mansion with small windows, towers at the corners, and crumbling battlements to give it a period look. Nash started to get out the keys Franchetti had given him, then observed that the front door sagged half off its hinges.

"I wonder who that is?" asked Alicia.

Nash looked."Probably the haunt." The person in question was an ominous-looking figure in a robe and hood, who stood at a little distance silently watching them.

A nearby bell went bongggg, bongggg, and the cowled figure turned and walked swiftly toward a group of low gray buildings.

"I remember now," said Nash."Franchetti mentioned a monastery, and I guess that's it. Hamid, help me with this door."

Nash wondered who among mundane persons would imagine a monastic astral body for himself. The astral bodies he had met so far seemed to run to the proud, the fierce, the rapacious, and the uninhibited: hardly the sort of people who would make good monks.

Franchetti, he decided, had robbed him, after he observed the warped floor boards, the sagging stairways, the shattered windows, and the scanty and broken furniture. Not that an extra fifty or hundred out of the sultan's hoard would make much difference: it was the principle of the thing.

Still, the place had a huge stove and an equally impressive icebox, and a broom closet holding half a dozen brooms in various stages of decrepitude. Alicia Woodson whooped when she saw these, and pressed them into the unenthusiastic hands of six of her co-wives."Get to work!" she shouted.

"Now," said Nash, "what do we need to live here for a week or two?"

Suggestions were poured over him by all the harem talking at once. He rounded up the slaves, doled out money, and sent them off, one to buy food, another firewood, another ice, another some hardware beginning with a hammer and nails, and so on. Before the first slave returned, Smiley began to roar loudly with hunger, and when a slave did appear he was immediately sent off to buy six quarts of blood.

Nash frantically tried to keep track of everything in his notebook, and the continuous gabble of three hundred and some women nearly drove him crazy. Then he was forced out of the house altogether by the choking clouds of dust raised by the brooms. Alicia rushed about like a cross between Brunhilda and Simon Legree, finding jobs for all the women and pouring loud contumely on those who flagged.

By late afternoon Nash had repaired the door and pasted paper over the broken window panes and nailed down the loose floor boards and glued legs on chairs and caulked the well bucket. Alicia found him sprawled supine among the weeds of what passed for the lawn.

"Prosper," she said, "I... are you tired?"

"No. I'm dead."

"All right, corpse, before you fade out I've got a job for you."

"Go 'way."

"No, really. There's no bedding in the place to speak of. Louise said that the monastery took a lot of paying guests and would have some. So I sent Cleo over to borrow mattresses and blankets, but do you know, when she knocked on the door a monk opened it and took one look at her and slammed it in her face! I'll bet they aren't real monks at all, but a gang of Satanists or something."

"More likely he feared for his immortal soul," groaned Nash, rising."O. K., I'll go."

A monk with his hood thrown back answered Nash's knock; looked carefully at Nash, and said: "You are he who is installing his... uh... seraglio at our very doorstep! What have we to do with such a one?"

"Not -at all!" cried Nash."They're perfectly good girls whom I rescued from a paynim's captivity." He added details.

"Oh," said the monk in a changed tone, "that is different. Come in, my son, and I'll see what we can do. I am Brother Benedict."

When Nash got a better view of Brother Benedict's face, he was sure he had seen it somewhere else—perhaps in a newspaper. He knew that if he dug deep enough through his mental files he'd be able to— Sure enough!

"Brother Benedict," he asked, "is your last name Wilcox?"

"It was."

Nash chuckled. Brother Benedict's mundane counterpart was Harry Van Rensselaer Wilcox, an ornament of cafe society who had been divorced six times, sued for breach of promise four, and thrown out of half the night clubs in New York.

Half an hour later he had his bedding. It would go round—almost, if the girls tripled up. At that Nash feared that the loan would leave some of the monks sleeping on cold stone. But once he had enlisted their sympathy, they would not take "no" for an answer.

Back in the castle Nash found smoke bringing a stench of burning food from the kitchen.

"One of the girls got careless with her beans," explained Alicia."I told off thirty of them to cook."

"Can they?"

"Some can't. But if I started asking, they'd all say they couldn't."

After dinner Alicia said: "You look pretty cheerful for a man who was half dead a couple of hours ago. What's your plan?"

"Gosh, I'm too tired to work this evening. I'm going to have fun."

"Oh, good! What?"

"See that ledger I had the boys get? Well, I'm going to count our money, and open a complete set of books for the estate of Arslan Bey, with every nickel's worth of expenditures and receipts in the right account!"

The girl's shoulders drooped a little. As she turned to go she addressed the atmosphere: "Some —people—have—funny—ideas—of a good—time!"

Nash grinned and lugged the account book and money up to the smallest bedroom, which he had chosen for himself.

He had to sit on the floor and work by candlelight. He missed his pipe; the chatter of the women wafted up through the boards; once the bong of the monastery bells startled him. But those distractions were minor— Clink, clink, clink, $140, $160, $180, $200, $220— $16, 360 in double eagles—

$412, 905. 45, checked and rechecked, and not counting a small pile of foreign coins and the gold plate.

How much should he keep for himself? That to Nash was a ticklish question whose contemplation made him a little uneasy. Arslan's own title to the money might be bad; Arslan might be a scoundrel; still Nash wished he could forget how unreservedly the scoundrel had trusted him. He admitted, a little grudgingly, that the rescue of these poor girls took precedence over Arslan's getting every cent returned or accounted for. It was still an impossibly tangled legal and moral question, especially if Arslan Bey's little robber state had been extinguished by the Aryan armies—

Hell, take ten percent, give the rest to the gals, and forget about it. If he failed to get the Shamir on his next try, he would pay off his debts, salt the rest away in a safe place—if the astral plane had such a thing—and keep very quiet about his nest egg. Not for him the lavishness of a gentleman performing the social duty of conspicuous waste."Friends" would swarm around begging a little loan, and Nash would be caught between his soft-heartedness and his financial meticulousness, with compliance and refusal both distressing.

He chuckled a little at himself: he should have imagined, instead of a dashing cavalier, one of those thrifty Puritans to whom financial gain was the outward visible sign of inward spiritual grace.

Now for the books: Capital Ace; Interest & Discount; Profit & Loss; Surplus & Deficit—

Until his door creaked open Nash did not realize that he had fallen asleep in an approximation of the lotus posture of Yoga. He shook the sleep out of his eyes. One of the candles had burned out; the light of the other showed one of the girls in the doorway, big-eyed and wrapped in a monk's blanket.

"Prosper! There's a man in the house!"

"Huh?"

"A man! Burglar! On the back stairs—"

Nash jumped up and went hunting with his sword. His quarry obligingly gave himself away by tripping over his own feet, and Nash chased him downstairs, through the main halls, and out a window, scaring the wits out of the girls sleeping on the ground floor. He got close enough to see that the intruder was no ragged burglar, but a bejeweled late-Medieval dandy.

Two hours later he was aroused again; this time a Casanova was climbing the ivy. Nash stole up to the roof, and as the man's head came over the wall Prosper whacked it with the flat of his blade. The man dropped twenty feet with a crash, picked himself out of the shrubbery, and limped off shrilling maledictions.

There were no more disturbances that night, but next morning after breakfast Nash set out for the monastery with one of Arslan's gold dinner plates under his coat.

In the yard he passed Alicia bending over a washtub. The girl was scrubbing vigorously with a blanket tied around her against the cold, and was smoking a corncob pipe.

At his muttered "Good lord," she looked up.

"Morning, Prosper, 'Smatter, 'fraid I'll shock our monastic friends? I've got to; my only clothes are in the wash."

"No; you're O. K. That pipe just made me wonder if you were created in the Kentucky mountains."

"Nope; I smoke a pipe when I happen to feel like smoking a pipe."

At Nash's request, Brother Benedict took him to see the abbot. Nash began by presenting the plate; the abbot was duly grateful, and said it would be a great thing for the poor of Staten Island.

Then Nash explained his troubles with amorous natives. He asked: "Don't you boys do a lot of walking around at night, by way of penance or something?"

"That is true."

"Well, I was wondering if you couldn't assign a couple of penancers each night to patrol around my castle with good, thick clubs."

"Why—that is a very startling idea. But—now that I think of it, there is something to be said for it. Of course your ladies must not make any... ahem... must comport themselves in a seemly manner."

"They'll behave all right, all right, if I have to tan their... if I have to apply corporal chastisement. Now maybe you could give me some advice on how to get them home safe. I don't want the local banditti to cut their throats as soon as they leave—"

The abbot showed a flash of unmonkish local pride: "It is nothing like as bad as that, M. de Nêche. Of course there are wicked men everywhere, but Staten Island has been reasonably safe since Duke Alessandro took hold. Jersey City is another matter, but I suppose your ladies can avoid it. Why not have them write their husbands and friends to come and get them? The mails run, except in the Manhattan war zone."

"Most of 'em come from Manhattan," objected Nash.

"Still, many of those would have friends in other parts."

"I'll try it. Now could you recommend a jeweler?"

The abbot gave him the name of Arnold Earnshaw Nathan, in St. George. Nash thought of asking for the whereabouts of Merlin Apollonius Stark, but decided that the good monks would probably suspect him of dealings with the Devil.

Nash set the girls to writing letters, and went down to St. George. Arnold Earnshaw Nathan was a plainly dressed man, older than most astralites, who hung out in a shop full of elaborate clocks, all ticking like mad. Nathan agreed to come up to the castle that afternoon to weigh and assay the odds and ends of the sultan's hoard. As he was agreeing, the clocks all struck eleven with a fearful jankle, and in the fancier ones all sorts of wonderful acts took place. Besides the usual cuckoos, there were clocks in which tiny figures appeared and went through acrobatic stunts, a house-shaped clock that appeared to catch fire until a set of toy firemen whirred into action and put the fire out, and so on.

On his way back, Nash passed a shop displaying weapons of all sorts: guns, swords, daggers. He went in and asked to see the most modern pistols in stock. These turned out to be a line of double-action revolvers, in. 32,. 38 and. 44 calibers.

"You wouldn't have a Colt. 45 automatic, service model?" asked Nash."If I ever have to shoot somebody, I don't want to just irritate him."

"Automatics? No. Nobody uses them."

"That's funny. You know what an automatic pistol is?"

"Sure, sure. No good; jam all the time."

"Where I come from they don't. Why is that?"

"You try to make one, you see. Too many little sliding parts and springs. Can't file them accurately enough."

"You mean your guns are all handmade?"

"Naturally. Make lots of them myself."

Nash ordered the merchant's whole stock of. 32s and. 38s for the girls, and a. 44 for himself. The merchant beamed, and asked to see Nash's license. It was then that Nash learned that Staten Island had a Sullivan law.

He sighed and set out for the county courthouse to get his licenses. All went well until the license clerk asked his reason for wanting the arsenal.

"Well," explained Nash, "my protégées recently came into some money, and they'll want some protection on their—"

"Money? Money? Ah, signor, da collect' of revenue, he wantsa to see you! Come with me!" The clerk bounced up and dragged Nash into the collector's office.

When Nash told the assistant collector of revenue that he had just arrived in Staten Island, and intended to leave in a few days, the official pursed his lips and said: "Then you will be liable for only a few taxes, my friend. Import tax, export tax, residence tax, transit tax, personal property tax, income tax. That'sa all. Here are your formsa."

Nash's face fell further and further. The official said: "Cheer uppa, signor. They will notta take more than eighty percent of this estate."

"At least," said Nash in a choked voice, "Iwant the text of all your tax laws."."Certainly, signor!" The assistant collector fished out a pile of pamphlets."In view of da size of da estate, we will iffa you like send a esspert to helpa you—"

"No, thanks. I can fill out tax returns all right."

"Fina! You will be back in a few daysa? You and your ladies mus' notta leava Staten Island until da taxes are paid, you know."

Early and bright the next morning Nash showed up at the revenue office. He cheerfully laid the six forms down on the assistant collector's desk,. and then began to shell money out of his belt.

The official smiled broadly. As he looked at the forms his smile faded. His eyes popped."Thir-teena dollars anda ninety-four cents on an estate of five hundred thous'! Dio mio, it is imposs'!"

Nash grinned."It's possible all right. Just look at all those deductions! Check it over all you want."

The assistant collector jumped up and bounced into the office of the collector, and the two reappeared and held a muttered consultation in Italian over the returns. Finally the collector spoke to Nash: "Looka, signor, what is thissa deducsh? You try to get away witta something, si?"

"Let's see.,. oh, that! That's authorized by the amendment to the personal property tax, dated 1893. Hasn't been repealed as far as I can see."

The collector sputtered."All those old deducsh —dissa man is a magish!"

"No, though I sometimes wish I were. If you can't find anything wrong with my returns, I'd like my receipt, please."

"Ah, signor," said the collector, "is no hurry! Why not stay around our beautiful Staten Island a few daysa longer?"

Nash shook his head, not caring to hang around until Duke Alessandro had a chance to issue some retroactive decree plugging all the loopholes that Nash had so laboriously discovered.

The officials urged him some more, until their importunities took on a tone of veiled menace.

Then Nash said: "Of course I might settle here —I could find out who your biggest taxpayers are and make a living as a tax expert."

"Oh, no, in thatta case! If you mus' go, you mus' go! We woulda not theenk of detaining you!"

Nash got his receipts, but when he tried to get his gun licenses the clerk, who had been tipped off, refused on the ground that an estate taxable only to the extent of thirteen dollars and ninety-four cents could not need much protection.

Nash returned to his castle just as a couple of men arrived: one of them on a homemade and extremely noisy motorcycle; the other, in top hat and cutaway, in a buggy. There were passionate embraces with the girls they had come to fetch, and a gala departure with much waving and feminine tears. More departures followed; Alicia handled the breaking-up of the harem in her usual competent manner.

Nash rounded up the eight slaves and asked them: "How would you boys like your freedom?"

"Freedom?" replied one."But, effendi, we belong to Arslan Bey!"

"I'm afraid he's dead, or he'd have joined us by now. I repeat: how would you like to be your own masters?"

They exchanged dazed glances. One said: "Oh, effendi, not belong to anyone? That would be terrible! We'd die!"

Nash tried to sell them the beauties of liberty.

but the only result was that they got down on their knees, wept, and prayed that he would not do such a thing to them.

Nash gave up and went in to lunch. Afterward he hiked down to Tompkinsville to find the headquarters of Merlin Apollonius Stark, whose address he had gotten from Nathan the jeweler.

The address was 160 St. Paul's Avenue, a street of small one- and two-story houses of the suburban residence type. He soon found 158; the lot south of it was vacant, and on the other side of ths open space was 162.

He walked back to 158 to make sure.

Gosh! Had he forgotten the correct number— no, he never forgot things like that. Had Nathan misinformed him, or had Merlin Apollonius mag-icked his house down to portable size and gone off with it?

"Come on," crackled a voice from the empty air in the middle of the vacant lot."Don't stand there. Walk up the path and ring the doorbell!"