“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!”
Chapter Eight:
The Missing Guns
IF WE HAD NEEDED ANYTHING more to tell us that what we were investigating was no practical joke—this was it. Wolff stared at Dunning for a momen
t, then abruptly started toward him, steering a course so direct that I had to step back in order to avoid being run down. He had forgotten me completely.
Dunning let him pass, then turned, and followed him out. Galt glanced nervously at Merlini and myself, started to speak, changed his mind, and hurried after them. Kathryn didn’t move.
Merlini looked at her. “I guess you called it,” he said. “If the ghost is the thief, he’s certainly up to no good. Come on. It might be wise if we all stick together from here on.”
She led the way out across the hall toward the door just at the foot of the stairs. My knowledge of firearms was limited to a nodding out-of-date acquaintance with the army Springfield gained in a college R.O.T.C. class and a scattered miscellany of dubious information acquired in my reading of detective fiction. But I knew, as soon as I stepped into the gun room, that Wolff’s collection was the sort that would make any museum curator mutter enviously in his sleep. And I suspected that his name was on the mailing list of every gun dealer in the country, right up at the top and in capital letters. He hadn’t had to limit himself, as many collectors do, to a specialized collection. He had gone the whole hog from harquebuses to Zigzag Derringers—and beyond.
A window, covered on the outside with close-set iron grilles, pierced the opposite wall above a worktable flanked by bookshelves. The four walls were covered ceiling-high with firearms arranged in neat chronological order. They began to the right of the window with the earliest fourteenth-century hand cannon, and progressed clockwise around the room through the matchlock, wheel lock, flintlock, percussion, and cartridge periods to the latest World War II automatic rifles. There were several allied objects; two or three pieces of armor, a case of swords, several crossbows, a halberd, and some powder horns.
In the center of the room a group of glass-covered exhibition cases held smaller special collections. One was of historical association pieces—guns that had been carried by such persons as Annie Oakley, Wyatt Earp, the Dalton boys, John Paul Jones, Bill Cody, and John Dillinger. There was a collection of Colts, one of dueling pistols, and one labeled: Special-Purpose Arms.
It was this last case which Wolff and Dunning were examining. The secretary pointed to several arms catalogues stacked on the case next in line.
“I found those,” he said, “scattered about on the special-purpose case. When I picked them up to return them to their shelves I saw immediately that two of the exhibits were gone. It looks as if someone had strewn the catalogues about so that we wouldn’t notice—”
Merlini, who had lifted the hinged top of the case and was examining the lock, said, “Bolt sheared off. And the shape of this indentation in the frame would suggest—” He glanced quickly around the room, saw several military rifles in a near-by rack, and finished, “that it was levered up with one of those bayonets.”
Wolff stared at the case with a scowl that promised trouble. Dunning fidgeted uneasily. I crowded in, wondering what special-purpose arms were, and discovered that, without their labels, I wouldn’t have recognized many of them as guns at all. This was, evidently, the freaks-and-oddities department. Small typed cards below each specimen bore such inscriptions as: Apache Pistol Combination Revolver, Brass Knuckles, and Dagger: Poacher’s Cane Pistol; Belgian Harmonica; East Indian Combination Matchlock Pistol, Ax, and Dagger; “My Friend” Knuckle-Duster Pistol; English Duckfoot Flintlock; Pencil Pistol, Chicago Protector Palm Pistol; etc. etc.
There were empty spaces above two of the cards. Merlini read the description on one aloud, Campbell & Harris Spring Gun. .25 caliber. He looked up at Wolff. “What is a spring gun?”
“A trap gun,” Wolff answered, still staring at the case. “Fasten it to a tree or anchor it to the ground, tie a string to the hole provided in the trigger and stretch it across an animal run. Anything touching the string—”
Merlini nodded. “I get the idea. I don’t like it much.” He read from the second card. Vest-Pocket Model Revolver. Smallest practical 5-shot revolver made. .25 caliber. Grip and trigger folds up around cylinder, making it easy to carry in vest pocket or lady’s purse without being conspicuous. Weight: 5½ ounces. Overall length when folded: 3 inches. He paused a moment, then added, “Someone has peculiar tastes. Were they valuable?”
Wolff, who had gone over to the worktable under the window, said, “No. They’re both modern pieces.” He pulled open a drawer beneath the table. “Dunning. You said four guns. What others—”
The secretary turned. “The lock on that drawer has been forced the same way. Two of the .38 target pistols are gone.”
Wolff scowled. “You can forget those. I took them this morning. But I didn’t force this lock.” He lifted a cardboard carton from the drawer, took the cover off, and looked inside. “This what you meant when you said there were cartridges missing?”
Dunning nodded. “Yes. That box of twenty-fives was unopened this morning. Now there are six shells missing. The trap gun would hold one, the vest-pocket revolver, five.” His tone of voice was the same as though he were announcing the escape of a captive cobra. I knew how he felt. That trap gun, loaded and its whereabouts unknown, was definitely not a pleasant prospect.
“Those two guns you took, Wolff,” Merlini asked. “Where are they?”
The man motioned toward his hip. “I’ve got one. I gave Mrs. Wolff the other. In view of what’s been happening around here, I thought—”
“Loaded?”
“Yes. Naturally.”
Merlini cast an uneasy glance at the array of deadly weapons that surrounded us, then approached Wolff and looked at the lock of the open drawer. “Do collectors usually keep ammunition on hand to fit their pieces? I should think that many of these guns would be too valuable to fire.”
“Fire them?” Wolff looked startled. “Of course not. There’s a shooting range outside and this drawer holds several target pistols of various calibers. The shells are intended for those.”
Merlini came back again to the special-purpose-arms case, lifted its glass top, and peered through it at the light. “The missing guns from this case,” he asked, “when were they seen last?”
“They were there less than an hour ago,” Wolff replied. “Dunning and I added that English Duckfoot which came from Bannerman & Kimball while we were in Miami last week. Both the missing pieces were in the case then. What’s so interesting about that glass? Fingerprints?”
Merlini leaned above the next case and examined its glass also, moving his head from side to side to catch the reflection of the light. He repeated this maneuver with the one beyond that before answering. Then he said, “Yes and no. There are a number of finger and palm prints on the glass of these two cases, but not so much as a smudge on the special-purpose case. We can, apparently, strike the family ghost off the list of suspects.”
Galt frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” Merlini said dryly, “if I were a bona fide astral visitant, lately returned from my grave, I wouldn’t worry too much about the fingerprints I might leave. I can imagine a ghost swiping those guns. I might even visualize him forcing the locks with a bayonet. There are tales in the history of apparitions of ghosts who have done things as strange. But I’m inclined to boggle at any haunt who lifts a corner of his shroud and carefully wipes away any possible fingerprints that he may have left behind. Aren’t you?”
Galt frowned. “I haven’t heard anyone say that the ghost is responsible for this.”
“No,” Merlini admitted. “Neither have I. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did.” He turned to Wolff. “There are two things I would suggest that you do at once.”
“What?”
“Gather up all the ammunition in this house and put it in the safe, if you’ve got one. And report your boatkeeper’s absence and the theft of these guns to the police.
Wolff scowled. “I’ll call the police when it becomes necessary. Those two guns haven’t gone far. They’re here in this house. They have to be. And I’m going to find them.”
“Here? What makes you so sure of that?”
“The burglar alarm has been operating all day. No one could possibly have got into or left this house except by Phillips’s permission. And he had orders—”
“The alarm system has a single central control?”
Wolff nodded. “Yes. In the hall below the stairs. Switch box. Locked. I have the key.”
Merlini wasn’t impressed. “These two locks were forced. Perhaps we’d better have a look at that one.”
He headed for the hall. Wolff blinked, and followed him out.
Then Kathryn turned to the secretary. “Dunning, Dad listens to you sometimes. Try to make him call the police.”
Dunning frowned uncertainly at the gun case. “If this sort of thing continues, he’ll have to.”
“If this sort of thing continues, it’ll be too late.” Kay moved with sudden decision toward the phone on the table. “I’m going to do it now.”
“Kay,” I said, “wait. There’s nothing they can do if he won’t—”
But Dunning had moved swiftly, cutting in ahead of her. He put his hand down over the phone. “No. He’ll be furious. And I have orders that—”
Kay tried to put Dunning in his place. “I’ll take the responsibility,” she said sharply. “Take your hand off that phone!”
But the secretary shook his head and stood firm. “No, I’m sorry.”
And from the doorway Wolff’s voice cut in, crisp and hard. “Stay where you are, Dunning. Who does she want to call?”
Kathryn turned. “The police. And, if I can’t phone them from here, I’ll do it from outside. This has gone far enough. Scotty—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Wolff said flatly. “I’ve told you that I don’t want the police. Your calling them will be useless if I won’t let them in. And I won’t. Dunning, go out to the switch box. Stand by to shut off the alarm when it rings.”
Wolff, followed by Merlini, crossed the room to the window. He unlocked it and pulled it open.
No Coffin for the Corpse Page 9
