Dangerous Hardboiled Magicians

by Mel Gilden

  “Here it is,” he said triumphantly in his shrill voice and turned to me with a folder in his hands. He set it down on top of the papers on his desk and opened it. Inside were some typed pages and a cellophane bag with gray powder in it. The gray meant the spell’s power had expired. In this case it had probably expired some years ago. He sat down and I stood to look over his shoulder.

  “This is very nice,” he said. “A spell made by one of the six Los Angeles Merlins, this one found in the hideout of Mr. Tips and Mr. Stuckler. Fairly typical of Prohibition magic. This spell was used to keep the house clean and orderly.”

  “Sounds wicked,” I remarked.

  “Apparently Anna Montaigne and the government thought so.”

  “Were you able to determine where this particular Merlin was trained?”

  “I believe so,” Mr. Quandum said as he shuffled through the typed sheets. “Ah,” he said at last. “It was put together by someone using the Stilthins Mort method.”

  I nodded. What Mr. Quandum told me was very much what I’d expected. “Does your folder happen to give Merlin’s real name?”

  Mr. Quandum shuffled papers for a while. “Nothing about that here, I’m afraid. All we know is that Merlin frequently took the form of Brent Martin, that musical actor. Anything else?” Mr. Quandum prepared to close his folder while he glanced past me out the door.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of Tips or Stuckler?” I asked.

  He hurriedly checked his papers again. “No. Like Merlin, they were never caught. Only some woman named Lyda Firebough. Is that helpful?”

  “Not much,” I said truthfully. “But the other, about Stilthins Mort, is very helpful.” I stood up. “Thanks for your time.” He blinked at me as I walked out the door.

  Over in the gift shop the kids were all lined up with their books and bags and wands and cone-shaped wizard’s hats—today’s mementos, tomorrow’s trash.

  I stepped outside the museum and called Fotheringay on my cell phone. Siltz answered again and acted as if I’d ruined his day by asking him to take a message. “Tell Fotheringay that Merlin learned his magic at Stilthins Mort.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It might have something to do with Misty Morning’s murder.”

  “How would it do that?”

  “Just give him the message, OK?” I suggested, cooling my usual warm manner by about twenty degrees.

  Siltz hung up, leaving me with an ear full of nothing. I held the phone for a moment while I looked across a grassy field at the traffic on Sixth Street. Behind me the kids continued to yammer at each other while one of the two women tried ineffectually to make them quiet. I was about to put the phone back into my pocket, but instead dialed Stilthins Mort and asked for Lord Slex. I walked to a bench and sat down in the shade of a big tree with my phone against my ear.

  The professional female voice that answered told me that Lord Slex was in a meeting, so I asked if either of the other two board members was available. “It’s about Misty Morning,” I said.

  She did not speak for what seemed to be a long time. “Just a moment, please,” she said.

  “Lord Trask.” His voice came on without any sound to indicate that he’d picked up a receiver.

  “Turner Cronyn here, sir,” I said.

  “Hilda says you wish to speak to me about Misty Morning. I was under the distinct impression that we had released you from the case.” I imagined him removing his monocle for emphasis while his mustache twitched, rabbit-like.

  “Yes, sir, you did. But I decided to stay on the case for my own reasons. As you might imagine, I feel that I owe something to Ms. Morning.”

  “That, of course, is your business. Why did you wish to speak with me?”

  “Did you ever hear of a magician who, during Prohibition, was known as Merlin?”

  “I’ve heard of him, yes.” Lord Trask’s voice had backed away from me a few miles. Either he didn’t know there were at least six local Merlins—or maybe he just liked the fact that I didn’t seem to know.

  “Do you happen to know his real identity?”

  “I understand he died,” Lord Trask said—a little too quickly, I thought.

  “Understand how? From where?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said irritably. “It was a long time ago. Are you quite finished?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Just one more question.”

  “And that is?”

  “Do you think a master wizard would know how to separate a soul from its body?” Ace Cronyn, getting ’em right between the eyes.

  Lord Trask waited so long to answer that I began to think he’d put the receiver down as soundlessly as he’d picked it up. When he spoke at last, it was with exaggerated courtesy and a cold controlled fury. “Mr. Cronyn,” he said, “you seem to have a talent for asking insulting questions. But in this case, because the answer is so simple and obvious, I will answer your question. I am a master wizard, Mr. Cronyn, and I know of no such method. Does that answer your question, Mr. Cronyn?”

  “Yes, sir. Have a nice day, sir.”

  “It’s much too late for that,” Lord Trask said. There was no mistaking when he hung up.

  I sat for a few minutes with the telephone in my lap, just enjoying the early fall day. A light wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere birds argued. Except for the boom of the traffic I might have been out in the country. The two women hustled the kids across the park and soon they were gone, leaving the day peaceful again.

  I had succeeded in confirming that Merlin was associated with Stilthins Mort, and that he and two members of his gang had never been captured. I had also managed to annoy Lord Trask, though it was still not clear to me why my question about souls had had that effect on him.

  I sat there a while longer playing catch with one idea and then another, and then I heard a shriek that raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BUSY MORNING

  I looked to one side and saw a huge flying beast gliding toward me on leathery wings, each of which had a sharp finger of bone at the tip. Its mouth was wide open in a toothy and most unpleasant grin. I sweated as I let it get closer. When it shrieked again and I smelled breath that would peel paint, I rolled forward off the bench, coming to my feet ten or fifteen steps away. With a rush of air the thing roared like a Wilshire bus as it zoomed through the space where I’d been sitting, sending the bench tumbling, and then swooped far up into the sky.

  I ran. I didn’t know if it would do any good, but I could think of doing nothing else. I ran. I took a moment to look over my shoulder and saw the beast make a wide slow graceful wheel in the sky and come at me again. I ran.

  It was pretty obvious that the thing was an old piece of magic that had bubbled up from a tar pit. I was just lucky enough to be there at the wrong moment. Closer now, it shrieked again. I couldn’t keep this up for long. Eventually that thing, that refugee from a bad time for wizards, would crunch me in the big scissors of its jaws. I would feel brief but excruciating pain, and tomorrow morning I would be a small poignant item in the papers. Politicians would fulminate, but nobody would really care except my parents; they would care a lot. I didn’t want to put them through that, so I ran a little faster.

  When I judged that the beast was pretty close, I suddenly dropped to the turf and was once again pummeled by the hard wind of its passing. I got up and, while the thing was making its turn in the sky, I looked around the park. I was in the middle of a big grassy field—nothing to hide behind or under for hundreds of feet in any direction. A man strolled onto the field from a copse of big trees, coming toward me with a couple of kids dancing around him.

  “Go back!” I called to him.

  “What?” he asked.

  He and the beast saw each other at the same second. He grabbed his kids and took off. I didn’t think he was going to make it back to the trees in time, particularly because those kids must have looked so tasty to a predator, but the bea
st flew over them as if they weren’t there and came ahead at me. I started to run again, once again fell at what I judged to be the right moment, and once again the beast glided inches above me in its jet-powered way.

  While my face was mashed into the grass, I had an idea. I got up and ran toward the nearest tar pit. Why hadn’t the beast attacked the guy and his two kids? I didn’t want it to attack them, I just wondered. Soon the municipal spell around the pit slowed me down, but I pushed through it with big wading motions, getting as close to the big pool of tar as I could. The beast dived at me. I ducked and it missed. I looked up just in time to see it float over the tar pit with all the ease of an autumn leaf. Suddenly it got all over sparkly, closed up like an umbrella, and was sucked down into the tar pit as if by a vacuum cleaner.

  I turned and walked out of the municipal spell. When I was entirely free of it, I allowed myself to collapse on the grass, breathing hard. I almost went back into the museum to tell Samuel Quandum what had happened, but right then it seemed more important that I rest. Besides, I got claustrophobic just thinking about becoming one more neatly typed page of data in Mr. Quandum’s filing cabinet.

  When I was breathing normally, I got up to go home. As I passed it, I glanced suspiciously at the tar pit into which the beast had disappeared. At the Sixth Street stoplight, a man looked at me. I was worth a look, I guess—I wasn’t my usual dapper self. My knees were grassy green, and I had ripped my shirt. I was covered in grass clippings. I was dripping sweat, too. I probably looked as if I’d slept in a dumpster. Personally, I was just glad to be alive.

  Upstairs in my apartment I bathed in hot water rather than using magic. Using water took longer and was a little more complicated, but ultimately was a lot more satisfying. I dressed again, very stylish in brown this time, and sat down at my telephone enjoying the feeling of clean clothes against my skin.

  I looked up the main number for the California Institute of Thaumaturgy. When I called it, I got a sweet young voice that said the name of the school back at me. I asked for Lord Meston. “Just a moment.” I waited.

  “Lord Meston,” a voice answered. It was a big round voice—not loud, but booming even so, and mellow, like an expertly played cello in a hall with perfect acoustics. I told him who I was and that I was working on the Misty Morning murder case.

  “I heard about that,” he said sadly. Without using much imagination I could see him shaking his head in sorrow. “How can I help you?”

  “Did you know Ms. Morning?” I asked.

  “We met once or twice, the first time at the party Cal Thau threw when I arrived to take a position on their board. I don’t actually remember what the second occasion was. There may not have been one.”

  “Arrived from where?” I asked.

  “I went to school at Conjure Hall in New York, and after I graduated I taught there for many years.”

  “Then you came here for the climate,” I suggested.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” he asked.

  “What was your impression of Ms. Morning?”

  “She was beautiful, smart, and talented. I liked her.”

  “Did you discuss her leaving Stilthins Mort and coming to teach at Cal Thau?”

  “I may have said that we would be delighted to have her, but I didn’t actually make an offer.”

  “Why not? You said yourself she was pretty good.”

  Lord Meston laughed heartily and with appreciation. “It wouldn’t have been ethical,” he said. “She was under contract to Stilthins Mort at the time. Besides, she was not the only pretty good wizard in town. We have a few at Cal Thau, too.”

  “Yeah,” I said noncommittally. “I bet you’re one of them.”

  “You’d win that bet,” Lord Meston said, and laughed again.

  “Do you know what she was working on just before she was murdered?”

  Lord Meston did not speak for a long time. Somewhere not far away someone was having a conversation. I heard the twang of only one voice and then silences, so it was probably a telephone conversation.

  “Do you think I killed her?” Lord Meston asked.

  “The lords at Stilthins Mort hired me to protect her from educational and industrial spies. They wouldn’t have done that unless they had a reason.”

  “Oh, those guys,” Lord Meston said as if he were discussing the Three Stooges.

  “Do you know what she was working on?”

  “I have no idea. What was she working on?”

  “Nobody knows,” I said. “Not even Dr. Heather Hamish.”

  “How is Dr. Hamish these days?”

  “Busy feeding her fish.”

  “Ah. I thought so.” He laughed again.

  “Thanks for your help, Lord Meston.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Delighted to help. Call again any time.”

  I hung up and for some reason left my hand resting on the receiver. I’d gotten as much information out of him as I would have gotten from a brick wall. He didn’t seem the type to commit murder, but lots of guys who didn’t seem the type—desperate guys, guys who had been pushed too far, guys with tempers—did the deed. If I didn’t learn a reason why not, eventually I would have to go visit him.

  Then I knew why I hadn’t taken my hand off the receiver. I needed to call Astraea Scales. She was still my client and she deserved a call, but not being sure of my own motives I didn’t know what to say to her. I shrugged. What the hell. I dialed the only number I had, Enough Rope.

  “Hello?” It was one of the three women in the back room, an old lady’s voice. I could almost see her wattles shake as she spoke.

  “I’d like to speak with Astraea.”

  “Of course,” she said, delighted as if I were that nice boy who was going to ask Astraea on a date.

  Astraea came on the line sounding very much as if she’d lingered over a second cup of coffee and the funnies rather than being chased by a flying dragon. I told her what I had accomplished that morning—not bad considering it was almost noon. “It’s just a theory, of course,” I said finally. “It’s entirely possible that Merlin had nothing to do with Misty’s death.”

  “I suppose it is,” she said, reluctant to give up the idea. “What do you think of Lord Trask’s reaction to your question about souls? Do you think he has anything to do with Eulalie Tortuga?”

  “I didn’t expect him to explode into my face, if that’s what you mean. Maybe he still has some paranoia left over from Prohibition.”

  “Paranoia? But what has he to be afraid of?”

  “Maybe nothing—nothing that still exists, anyway. Just because a guy is smart doesn’t mean he’s sane. I don’t know what he went through during Prohibition. And Slex might have answered my question the same way if I’d put it to him, I don’t know. Slex wanting to take Eulalie’s soul would certainly make more sense than Trask’s wanting it, for a moment putting aside the question of whether a wizard could really do it at all.”

  “Hmm,” Astraea said. “There must be a renegade keres in the mix somewhere.”

  I could only agree.

  “Maybe,” she went on, still thinking, “one of the Stilthins Mort lords is Merlin.”

  “Could be. But a lot of people do magic using the Stilthins Mort method. Look, Astraea,” I went on quickly, “how would you like to go out with me tonight?”

  “Is this part of the case?” she asked warily.

  Sure. She was a professional virgin. She wanted to know whether she was still a client or had become the object of my desire. I guess I could get too clever. Reining in my silver tongue just a little, I explained about Harold Silverwhite and Lord Philpot.

  Astraea seemed to understand. “I will dress to kill,” she said.

  “Maybe just to injure,” I suggested. “We have to get some work done. We don’t want every man in the place fainting.”

  “All right.”

  “Right now, I’m going to Eulalie Tortuga’s house. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

  “I w
ill come there, too.”

  “No need for that. Take it easy. I’ll keep you informed. That’s why your three grandmothers pay me the big bucks.”

  I expected her to argue with me but for some reason she did not. “Very well,” she said.

  I hung up feeling as if I’d thrown dirt into her face. But I had feelings too, and knowing what I’d learned about her on the maJsys the night before I wasn’t yet prepared to drive around with her all day pretending she had all the sex appeal of a wad of chewed gum. I’d been entirely professional on the phone, but that didn’t help. My chances of getting to know her more intimately were the same as I had of successfully juggling anvils.

  When I’d sat there long enough to feel silly about pouting, I got up and went out. Downstairs I strolled to my car through the perfect air, through the kind of day even Los Angeles gets only two or three times a year. I felt better just walking around in it.

  Not far away I heard idiotic laughter, but it’s no crime to laugh so I didn’t think much about it. Too late I heard footsteps run up behind me.

  Before I could turn to see what was going on, someone threw a sack over my head. The foul smell of fertilizer clotted in my lungs as I struggled. But the sack already held my arms tightly against my sides, so all I could do was wriggle like a caught fish. I yelled for help but doubted whether anybody heard me.

  Muffled idiotic laughter came through the sack again as somebody knocked me over. Somebody caught me by the shoulders and somebody else picked up my feet. I kicked out as hard as I could but hit nothing. I continued trying to make life difficult for my captors, but in less than a minute I was thrown into the back seat of a car. Somebody knocked all the wind out of me when he sat on me. The giggling continued as the car started with a squeal of tires, and we were on our way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TRAPPED

  Sherlock Holmes might have been able to keep track of left and right turns, but I was not the iron man he was. I had a hard time just breathing. Whoever was sitting on me now seemed to weigh as much as a buffalo and was quickly moving into elephant territory. When I managed to take a breath, all I got was fertilizer. By the time we arrived where we were going, I’d lost a lot of my fight.