Adventures of a Professional Corpse

by H. Bedford-Jones

  I had no hesitation in trusting him. I gave him ocular evidence of my peculiar physique, then went on to tell exactly how I played the part of a corpse. He shot in shrewd questions; he knew all about drugs.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Hm! A bit of atropine, to dry up all secretions and stop saliva or sweating. Yes, antipyrin will cause coldness of skin and finger-tips, and blue lips—yes, yes. But breathing does not stop.”

  I told him how Roesch managed the mirror test himself, and showed how, by practice, I was able to breathe “via diaphragm” without moving the upper chest, forcing the lungs down instead of up and sideways. He nodded.

  “I see. I believe you’re honest enough; so here are my cards. Do you gentlemen know what a shuteye medium is?”

  We shook our heads, and he went on.

  “It’s slang for a fake spirit worker who, in one way or another, comes to believe in his own powers. When this belief seizes such a person, he is overcome by remorse for his own rascality. In nearly every instance, he becomes a suicide. Now, here’s the advertisement of a local spirit-worker. Look it over.”

  Unfolding a copy of a local newspaper, he pointed to the grandiloquent advertisement of one Professor St. Edward. The professor ran the usual religious racket, it seemed, thus avoiding all licenses or fees and other legal impedimenta; he was in direct contact with the spirit world, not to mention the Almighty.

  “I’ll have nothing to do with any such racket,” I said. “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “We have never met, Mr. Bronson,” said McWhirt frigidly. “He does not know me; but I know him. For five years I’ve been on the trail of this crook; and now I’ve got him.”

  His cold, implacable manner was impressive. He went on to explain.

  It seemed that McWhirt and his wife, years ago, had lost an only child. Mrs. McWhirt had fallen under St. Edward’s mystic spell, endeavoring to communicate with her lost child as so many grief-stricken parents do. St. Edward had kidded her along and taken her money in chunks. Then, one day, she learned he was an absolute fraud; the shock killed her.

  Ever since, McWhirt had been gunning for the professor, and had now located him, and meant to get him hard.

  He knew all about the quarry. St. Edward was doing very well here, pulling off miracles right and left, and had come to believe implicitly in his own occult powers. As McWhirt explained it, this was a psychological phenomenon which frequently affected such fake workers in the spirit world.

  St. Edward was actually good, as McWhirt grimly admitted. It seemed that our client, using another name, had joined the “congregation.” Now he intended to get into personal contact with the professional and play the part of a sucker with money.

  “We’ll be bosom friends inside two days,” he went on, and prodded his finger at me. “You come along and pretend to fall for his stuff. Roesch, you likewise. The man drinks like a fish. The better class of people here are down on him, and so are the local churches, on account of his travesty of religion; but he’s too smart to be touched legally.”

  “Then what do you intend?” I demanded. He shook his head.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m building on the vague idea of using your trick death; give me a few days to think it over. I’ll pay half now, the other half when you agree to fall in with whatever plan I think up. You’ll be worth it, if my hunch is right.”

  It sounded fair enough and it was fair enough. We agreed, on condition that his plan meet with my approval; and he wrote his check on the spot.

  ROESCH and I attended Professor St. Edward’s “services” that night. Doc Roesch had dabbled in the fake occult and knew how many of the trick “manifestations” were produced; but we both got the surprise of our lives.

  St. Edward was a burly, uneducated, rough and red-faced racketeer with all the big heart of a wall-eyed pike; but he had the gift of the gab, a convincing personality, and the gall of a canal-horse. The way he milked the suckers was a crime. It was pitiful to see what implicit confidence some of those poor men and women had in him, and how he abused it. His seance produced spirits, voices, table-talk or anything else that was wanted.

  Yet he had something on the ball, something we could not understand. He was the worst sort of a faker—and he was something more.

  His “church” was a small hall, with platform and chairs. After his religious rigmarole ended, the seances took place in a large, bare back room dimly lit by invisible lighting. Any one could see that no apparatus of any kind was used.

  “Just the same, he used it,” said Roesch. “Illusion’s a great thing. But how did he pull all that spirit talking. He got my father, who spoke of things I alone knew; it was no trick. The man never saw or heard of me. He did the same thing with other folks there.”

  “Illusion’s a great thing,” I repeated mockingly. “You fell for it.”

  In my heart, however, I felt this was not the answer.

  Roesch, who had a genius for detective work, devoted himself for the next three days to running around town, finding out what he could do about the professor. I took it easy. We both stuck to the nightly seances, and witnessed things past comprehension, mixed up with undiluted fakery. The only explanation was that the professor had a number of stooges planted in his circle; yet the people who got messages or manifestations or even materializations were not, to my way of thinking, stooges. They were too really and profoundly affected.

  On the fourth day, McWhirt came to the hotel and we held a conference. I had not asked Roesch about his findings, but now I did so, saying frankly that before going ahead I wanted to know where we stood. I did not intend to victimize any innocent man.

  “No danger,” said the doctor grimly. “I’ve uncovered a lot of stuff, although not with legal evidence. St. Edward has swindled no end of people in this town. He pays high police protection and can’t be touched ordinarily. His victims are usually women. He owns half a dozen pieces of property taken over from his victims; here’s a list of it,” and he laid down a typed paper. “Complaints have been made against him and dismissed for lack of evidence. The chief suckers haven’t squawked, of course; they never do. At the same time, other folks swear by him. We’ve seen how he goes after the coin like a bird-dog—yet a lot of people think they get their money’s worth.”

  I nodded and looked at McWhirt, who had a dour gleam in his eye.

  “What d’you think of him, Mac?”

  “What Roesch has said, is true. My belief is that the man does have some natural talent in the occult direction, and doesn’t hesitate to mix it with really raw work, the lowest sort of trickery. He has an avid cupidity for money, and stops at nothing to get it.”

  I nodded again. “My scruples are removed. Have you got a plan?”

  “Yes. First, I have a present for you.” McWhirt produced a box which held a small pocket mirror with a glass in each side. “You told me that the only danger to your little trick of simulating death, lay in someone trying the mirror test, which would reveal that you were still breathing. Well, I know a few tricks myself,” he added, smiling. “One side of this mirror is treated with a certain acid, the other is natural. Try it.”

  I did so. The natural side was clouded by my breath; the treated side was not. An exclamation burst from Roesch as he, too, tried it.

  “Good lord, Bronson! This answers all our chief and last problem! With this mirror, we’re safe, absolutely safe!”

  “Right,” said McWhirt briskly. “I thought you’d jump at it. By the way, let me make a copy of that property list, will you? Thanks. Well, here’s the scheme. All three of us will gang up on the professor. We’ll join his classes, we’ll become ardent followers of the occult, we’ll kick in with money as well to prove our devotion; I’ll put up the cash needed.”

  McWhirt had been busy, it seemed, among reputable citizens and among the churches. There was a growing sentiment that Professor St. Edward was no credit to the city; that he was, in fact, a distinct menace.

  Better business organi
zations would be only too glad to get rid of him, and McWhirt, guided by his insatiable desire for punishment upon this man, was providing the means.

  “With your help, I’ll bust him higher than Gilroy’s kite,” he told us. “Lend yourselves to the job for a week or two. When he goes on one of his periodic benders, then I’ll strike—”

  “Hold on,” I broke in. “He can’t pull this occult stuff when he drinks.”

  “You don’t know him. He’s better than ever at such times! Didn’t I tell you he believed in his own powers? It’s even more true when he’s drinking heavily. Well, the plan is simple. You keel over during one of his seances. You’re dead. I’ll be running articles in the local papers about the danger of such seances; your death will prove it. Roesch will file a murder charge. The press and pulpits and public organizations will take up the matter and ballyhoo it to the skies—and St. Edward, blast him, will either be run out of town or into jail, or else will skip in a hurry! He’ll be ruined for life as a medium; I’ll see to that.”

  We had no objections. We were working in a good cause. But we should have known that McWhirt, being Scotch, had kept a card or two up his sleeve.

  As we became more firmly established in the professor’s circle, I became more aware of a peculiar thing about his racket. This was the personal angle. All the occult stuff he pulled for anyone else, even for Roesch, impressed me little. It might be real or it might be fake; I could not be certain either way, and cared less.

  But he began angling for my sucker money, and I chuckled to myself. He had a queer way of getting to his point; he would announce frequently that names did not matter in spirit-land, but he would describe certain people in the audiences, for whom messages were waiting, or with whom spirits wanted to speak. It cost five dollars or more to get the works later in the seance, depending on how affluent the sucker looked.

  SO, two nights in succession, he described me among others. I thought this was all a clever dodge to avoid using names which he could not know, as he did not know mine; but now I am not so sure. While I attended the seances afterward, I did not swallow the bait at first; he got his money in advance, and one had to arrange with him before the call would be answered. Watching others get results which seemed to amaze them, I got curious at last, and one night hunted up the professor before the performance began. He had a strong aroma of bourbon on his breath, but this was not important.

  “Twice,” I said, after bringing myself to his attention, “you’ve described me and said someone wanted me. I wonder if it could be my sister Kate?”

  I had no such sister, of course. St. Edward rolled his eyes in a wild way he had, and spoke with unction as he saw me taking the bait. Or so I thought.

  “Brother, I don’t get names, I don’t call names,” he said. “The spirits don’t take much stock in names, far as I can discover. If you want to take a chance during the seance, I’ll say you’re ready and you can figure results for yourself. My vibrations are strong tonight and it may be an important message. It’ll cost you five bucks now, though.”

  I slipped him the five, and he beamed. He ran through the usual patter, adjourned the “service,” and we trooped into the seance room. He was doing a trance act this evening, combined with a crystal. There were a couple of dozen in the room, including Roesch and McWhirt.

  Holding hands all around, going through the usual songs and ritual, he stared intently into the crystal ball and then began to twitch. His eyes closed. His voice came in a hoarse straining manner as though he were short of breath.

  “A brother is waiting,” he said, and described me. “Who wants him? Who wants to speak with him? Come closer, friends, closer! Now I can see you. There are two of you. One is a man with a wart on his left cheek; I see the little finger of his right hand is gone. The other is a boy with red hair and a freckled nose. Step up, young man! Deliver your message through me. I am waiting.”

  He waited, and I waited, and there was a chill inside me, too. I knew who the man was, all right; the description was exact. And I knew who the boy was. St. Edward began to speak, jerkily.

  “I’m your cousin; you remember me,” he said, or the boy spirit said. Take your choice. “I was with our folks last night. Your mother was saying they had not heard from you in two months and she’s worried. I’m worried too. You are associated in business with a man who has red hair like me, and he is holding out on you. He has no evil intentions, but you are being used by him for his own purposes. I want you to know this for your own good because we were always pals. You are in some kind of danger but I don’t know just what it is, so be careful. Good-by, Art, and I’ll meet you when you come over—”

  The voice faded out. St. Edward went on to play the next sucker; I was through. But the woman next me, a nice motherly old soul who was in the racket for all she was worth, leaned over to me.

  “Your hand’s sweating,” she said. “I bet it was a real message, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure sounded like it,” I replied.

  AFTER the show, Roesch and McWhirt and I met in our hotel room.

  “Now, gents, pay attention,” I said. My nerves were steadied by this time. “My real name, which I’m not using, and which even you, Roesch, don’t know, happens to be Art. It’s exactly two months since I’ve written my mother. That boy was the spit and image of a second cousin who died years ago; he and I were intimate friends. And, Mr. McWhirt, you’re the only redheaded man I’m in business with. Are you holding out or not?”

  McWhirt’s blue eyes were bulging. “Lord!” he gasped. “Yes, it’s a fact; I am. Nothing that’s any of your business, though; I’m putting over a little deal of my own on the side.”

  “Then forget it,” I said. “You’re straight. I just wanted to clear up the facts in the case. Now, how the devil did St. Edward know all this stuff? Oh, I forgot! The man he described, with the wart and one finger off, was my uncle John . . . no mistake there. Speak up, Roesch! Did the man read my mind, to know such things?”

  Roesch was anxious, McWhirt was mopping his face.

  “Might be that,” replied the doc “Don’t ask me, Bronson!”

  “That rascal has something on the ball,” said McWhirt earnestly. “I told you he mixes real with false, didn’t I?”

  “Either,” said Roesch, “you’ve got to accept the occult business in a gulp, or else figure it’s some sort of trickery, perhaps telepathy, we don’t savvy. One thing is sure, though. Remember the old lady sitting next to you in the seance, Bronson?”

  I nodded. He went on quickly.

  “I happened to be looking her up today. She’s a sucker for sure; alone in the world and was left well off by her husband, but she’s turned over most of her money to St. Edward. All she has left is a boarding house, which supports her. He’s fixing to get his hands on that, next.”

  “Then suppose we get busy and stop his game,” I said. “The thing got me jittery tonight, I don’t mind saying. I’d like to get it done with.”

  McWhirt was brisk and assured once more. “Suits me,” he said. “St. Edward is drinking, which means that for the next week he’ll be on one holy binge and pulling no end of his blasted miracles. Let’s set the business for Saturday night. Suit you?”

  It did. This was Tuesday; we had four days to go. McWhirt meant to get the press and the pulpit stirred up, guaranteeing to have some newspaper men on hand Saturday night, and a local physician to back up the findings of Doc Roesch. It would make a big story in the Sunday papers, and he predicted that by Sunday night the professor would be finished for keeps. We discussed the details, and McWhirt departed.

  Roesch gave me a queer look. “Are you in earnest about being jittery?”

  “Yes,” I said, and told him why. That uncle of mine, with the missing finger and the wart, had been a wanderer all over the world, and had come home to die. With him he had brought all sorts of queer plunder. I had dipped into it, and found some queer herb extract from the Peruvian jungles. Sampling this, I had died, as everyone
thought, only to come alive once more when the effect wore off.

  “That’s what started me on the corpse racket,” I concluded. “Analysis of the stuff led to the dosage I now take, on a scientific basis. Thus, my Uncle John was more or less responsible for my career as a professional corpse. You yourself never knew these details; then how could St. Edward have faked his spirit stuff with me? It was telepathy.”

  “I expect so,” he agreed. “He pulled it out of your own mind, eh? Well, I’ll now get more personally acquainted with the professor, just so he’ll know a doctor is on hand when the break comes Saturday night.”

  THIS was essential, since Roesch had to handle me and give me the dose that would fetch me around afterward, as well as manage the details with the mortician in charge.

  When we showed up next evening at the “church,” St. Edward beckoned me into the back room. He had been hitting the bottle, but his potations had not impaired his occult powers.

  “Glory be, young man!” said he impressively. “I’m told you had two visitors last night—of course. I know nothing of what transpires while I’m in a state of trance. Did you get your money’s worth?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “One of the visitors gave me a swell message.”

  “Then you must get the other one,” he went on, and I saw his little game. “You can’t afford to let the matter drop, when you get such remarkable results! Shall I call your other visitor tonight?”

  “No thanks, I’m satisfied,” I rejoined. I had no intention of passing the time of day with my Uncle John; he had always been a rough customer. Nor would I hand the professor any more cash. “I’ll stick around and make up my mind later. Right now, I want to wait.”

  “Well, don’t pass up a sure thing!” said the professor solemnly.

  “I won’t,” I said. “I want to be sure you’re not faking it, to be honest with you.”

  That hurt him. He put an arm about my shoulder and almost wept with emotion.