by Otto Penzler
“All right, Hank,” Turnbull whispered. “You’ll have to materialize long enough to let the clerk swear you in.”
The clerk drew back nervously at the pillar of milky fog that appeared before him, vaguely humanoid in shape. A phantom hand, half transparent, reached out to touch the Bible. The clerk’s voice shook as he administered the oath, and heard the response come from the heart of the cloud-pillar.
The haze drifted into the witness chair, bent curiously at about hip-height, and popped into nothingness.
The judge banged his gavel wildly. The buzz of alarm that had arisen from the spectators died out.
“I’ll warn you again,” he declared, “that unruliness will not be tolerated. The counsel for the plaintiff may proceed.”
Turnbull walked to the witness chair and addressed its emptiness.
“Your name?”
“My name is Henry Jenkins.”
“Your occupation?”
There was a slight pause. “I have none. I guess you’d say I’m retired.”
“Mr. Jenkins, just what connection have you with the building referred to as Harley Hall?”
“I have occupied it for ninety years.”
“During this time, did you come to know the late Zebulon Harley, owner of the Hall?”
“I knew Zeb quite well.”
Turnbull nodded. “When did you make his acquaintance?” he asked.
“In the spring of 1907. Zeb had just lost his wife. After that, you see, he made Harley Hall his year-round home. He became—well, more or less of a hermit. Before that we had never met, since he was only seldom at the Hall. But we became friendly then.”
“How long did this friendship last?”
“Until he died last fall. I was with him when he died. I still have a few keepsakes he left me then.” There was a distinct nostalgic sigh from the witness chair, which by now was liberally spattered with muddy red liquid. The falling drops seemed to hesitate for a second, and their sizzling noise was muted as with a strong emotion.
Turnbull went on, “Your relations with him were good, then?”
“I’d call them excellent,” the emptiness replied firmly. “Every night we sat up together.
When we didn’t play pinochle or chess or cribbage, we just sat and talked over the news of the day. I still have the book we used to keep records of the chess and pinochle games. Zed made the entries himself, in his own handwriting.”
Turnbull abandoned the witness for a moment. He faced the judge with a smile. “I offer in evidence,” he said, “the book mentioned. Also a ring given to the plaintiff by the late Mr. Harley, and a copy of the plays of Gilbert and Sullivan. On the flyleaf of this book is inscribed, ‘To Old Hank,’ in Harley’s own hand.”
He turned again to the empty, blood-leaking witness chair.
He said, “In all your years of association, did Zebulon Harley ever ask you to leave, or to pay rent?”
“Of course not. Not Zeb!”
Turnbull nodded. “Very good,” he said. “Now, just one or two more questions. Will you tell in your own words what occurred, after the death of Zebulon Harley, that caused you to bring this suit?”
“Well, in January young Harley—”
“You mean Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant?”
“Yes. He arrived at Harley Hall on January fifth. I asked him to leave, which he did. On the next day he returned with another man. They placed a talisman upon the threshold of the main entrance, and soon after sealed every threshold and window sill in the Hall with a substance which is noxious to me. These activities were accompanied by several of the most deadly spells in the Ars Magicorum. He further added an Exclusion Circle with a radius of a little over a mile, entirely surrounding the Hall.”
“I see,” the lawyer said. “Will you explain to the court the effects of these activities?”
“Well,” the voice said thoughtfully, “it’s a little hard to put in words. I can’t pass the Circle without a great expenditure of energy. Even if I did I couldn’t enter the building because of the talisman and the seals.”
“Could you enter by air? Through a chimney, perhaps?”
“No. The exclusion Circle is really a sphere. I’m pretty sure the effort would destroy me.”
“In effect, then, you are entirely barred from the house you have occupied for ninety years, due to the wilful acts of Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant, and an unnamed accomplice of his.”
“That is correct.”
Turnbull beamed. “Thank you. That’s all.”
He turned to Wilson, whose face had been a study in dourness throughout the entire examination. “Your witness,” he said.
Wilson snapped to his feet and strode to the witness chair.
He said belligerently, “You say your name is Henry Jenkins?”
“Yes.”
“That is your name now, you mean to say. What was your name before?”
“Before?” There was surprise in the voice that emanated from above the trickling blood-drops. “Before when?”
Wilson scowled. “Don’t pretend ignorance,” he said sharply. “Before you died, of course.”
“Objection!” Turnbull was on his feet, glaring at Wilson. “The counsel for the defense has no right to speak of some hypothetical death of my client!”
Gimbel raised a hand wearily and cut off the words that were forming on Wilson’s lips. “Objection sustained,” he said. “No evidence has been presented to identify the plaintiff as the prospector who was killed in 1850—or anyone else.”
Wilson’s mouth twisted into a sour grimace. He continued on a lower key.
“You say, Mr. Jenkins, that you occupied Harley Hall for ninety years.”
“Ninety-two years next month. The Hall wasn’t built—in its present form, anyhow—until 1876, but I occupied the house that stood on the site previously.”
“What did you do before then?”
“Before then?” The voice paused, then said doubtfully, “I don’t remember.”
“You’re under oath!” Wilson flared.
The voice got firmer. “Ninety years is a long time,” it said. “I don’t remember.”
“Let’s see if I can’t refresh your memory. Is it true that ninety-one years ago, in the very year in which you claim to have begun your occupancy of Harley Hall, Hank Jenkins was killed in a gun duel?”
“That may be true, if you say so. I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember that the shooting occurred not fifty feet from the present site of Harley Hall?”
“It may be.”
“Well, then,” Wilson thundered, “is it not a fact that when Hank Jenkins died by violence his ghost assumed existence? That it was then doomed to haunt the site of its slaying throughout eternity?”
The voice said evenly, “I have no knowledge of that.”
“Do you deny that it is well known throughout that section that the ghost of Hank Jenkins haunts Harley Hall?”
“Objection!” shouted Turnbull. “Popular opinion is not evidence.”
“Objection sustained. Strike the question from the record.”
Wilson, badgered, lost his control. In a dangerously uneven voice, he said, “Perjury is a criminal offense. Mr. Jenkins, do you deny that you are the ghost of Hank Jenkins?”
The tone was surprised. “Why, certainly.”
“You are a ghost, aren’t you?”
Stiffly, “I’m an entity on the astral plane.”
“That, I believe, is what is called a ghost?”
“I can’t help what it’s called. I’ve heard you called a lot of things. Is that proof?”
There was a surge of laughter from the audience. Gimbel slammed his gavel down on the bench.
“The witness,” he said, “will confine himself to answering questions.”
Wilson bellowed, “In spite of what you say, it’s true, isn’t it, that you are merely the spirit of a human being who had died through violence?”
The voice f
rom above the blood drops retorted. “I repeat that I am an entity of the astral plane. I am not aware that I was ever a human being.”
The lawyer turned an exasperated face to the bench.
“Your honor,” he said, “I ask that you instruct the witness to cease playing verbal hide-and-seek. It is quite evident that the witness is a ghost, and that he is therefore the relict of some human being, ipso facto. Circumstantial evidence is strong that he is the ghost of the Hank Jenkins who was killed in 1850. But this is a non-essential point. What is definite is that he is the ghost of someone who is dead, and hence is unqualified to act as witness! I demand his testimony be stricken from the record!”
Turnbull spoke up at once. “Will the counsel for the defense quote his authority for branding my client a ghost—in the face of my client’s repeated declaration that he is an entity of the astral plane? What is the legal definition of a ghost?”
Judge Gimbel smiled. “Counsel for the defense will proceed with the cross-examination,” he said.
Wilson’s face flushed dark purple. He mopped his brow with a large bandanna, then glared at the dropping, sizzling trickle of blood.
“Whatever you are,” he said, “answer me this question. Can you pass through a wall?”
“Why, yes. Certainly.” There was a definite note of surprise in the voice from nowhere. “But it isn’t as easy as some people think. It definitely requires a lot of effort.”
“Never mind that. You can do it?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be bound by any physical means? Would handcuffs hold you? Or ropes, chains, prison walls, a hermetically sealed steel chest?”
Jenkins had no chance to answer. Turnbull, scenting danger, cut in hastily. “I object to this line of questioning. It is entirely irrelevant.”
“On the contrary,” Wilson cried loudly, “it bears strongly on the qualifications of the so-called Henry Jenkins as a witness! I demand that he answer the question.”
Judge Gimbel said, “Objection overruled. Witness will answer the question.”
The voice from the air said superciliously, “I don’t mind answering. Physical barriers mean nothing to me, by and large.”
The counsel for the defense drew himself up triumphantly.
“Very good,” he said with satisfaction. “Very good.” Then to the judge, the words coming sharp and fast, “I claim, your honor, that the so-called Henry Jenkins has no legal status as a witness in court. There is clearly no value in understanding the nature of an oath if a violation of the oath can bring no punishment in its wake. The statements of a man who can perjure himself freely have no worth. I demand they be stricken from the record!”
Turnbull was at the judge’s bench in two strides.
“I had anticipated that, your honor,” he said quickly. “From the very nature of the case, however, it is clear that my client can be very definitely restricted in his movements—spells, pentagrams, talismans, amulets, Exclusion Circles, and what-not. I have here—which I am prepared to deliver to the bailiff of the court—a list of the various methods of confining an astral entity to a restricted area for periods ranging from a few moments to all eternity. Moreover, I have also signed a bond for five thousand dollars, prior to the beginning of the trial, which I stand ready to forfeit should my client be confined and make his escape, if found guilty of any misfeasance as a witness.”
Gimbel’s face, which had looked startled for a second, slowly cleared. He nodded. “The court is satisfied with the statement of the counsel for the plaintiff,” he declared. “There seems no doubt that the plaintiff can be penalized for any misstatements, and the motion of the defense is denied.”
Wilson looked choleric, but shrugged. “All right,” he said. “That will be all.”
“You may step down, Mr. Jenkins,” Gimbel directed, and watched in fascination as the blood-dripping column rose and floated over the floor, along the corridor, out the door.
Turnbull approached the judge’s bench again. He said, “I would like to place in evidence these notes, the diary of the late Zebulon Harley. It was presented to my client by Harley himself last fall. I call particular attention to the entry for April sixth, 1917, in which he mentions the entrance of the United States into the First World War, and records the results of a series of eleven pinochle games played with a personage identified as ‘Old Hank.’ With the court’s permission, I will read the entry for that day, and also various other entries for the next four years. Please note the references to someone known variously as ‘Jenkins,’ ‘Hank Jenkins,’ and—in one extremely significant passage—‘Old Invisible.’ ”
Wilson stewed silently during the slow reading of Harley’s diary. There was anger on his face, but he paid close attention, and when the reading was over he leaped to his feet.
“I would like to know,” he asked, “if the counsel for the plaintiff is in possession of any diaries after 1920?”
Turnbull shook his head. “Harley apparently never kept a diary, except during the four years represented in this.”
“Then I demand that the court refuse to admit this diary as evidence on two counts,” Wilson said. He raised two fingers to tick off the points. “In the first place, the evidence presented is frivolous. The few vague and unsatisfactory references to Jenkins nowhere specifically describe him as what he is—ghost, astral entity, or what you will. Second, the evidence, even were the first point overlooked, concerns only the years up to 1921. The case concerns itself only with the supposed occupation of Harley Hall by the so-called Jenkins in the last twenty years—since ’21. Clearly, the evidence is therefore irrelevant.”
Gimbel looked at Turnbull, who smiled calmly.
“The reference to ‘Old Invisible’ is far from vague,” he said. “It is a definite indication of the astral character of my client. Furthermore, evidence as to the friendship of my client with the late Mr. Zebulon Harley before 1921 is entirely relevant, as such a friendship, once established, would naturally be presumed to have continued indefinitely. Unless of course, the defense is able to present evidence to the contrary.”
Judge Gimbel said, “The diary is admitted as evidence.”
Turnbull said, “I rest my case.”
There was a buzz of conversation in the courtroom while the judge looked over the diary, and then handed it to the clerk to be marked and entered.
Gimbel said, “The defense may open its case.”
Wilson rose. To the clerk he said, “Russell Joseph Harley.”
But young Harley was recalcitrant. “Nix,” he said, on his feet, pointing at the witness chair. “That thing’s got blood all over it! You don’t expect me to sit down in that large puddle of blood, do you?”
Judge Gimbel leaned over to look at the chair. The drip-drop trickle of blood from the apparition who’d been testifying had left its mark. Muddy brown all down the front of the chair. Gimbel found himself wondering how the ghost managed to replenish its supply of the fluid, but gave it up.
“I see your point,” he said. “Well, it’s getting a bit late anyhow. The clerk will take away the present witness chair and replace it. In the interim, I declare the court recessed till tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
III
Russell Harley noticed how the elevator boy’s back registered repulsion and disapproval, and scowled. He was not a popular guest in the hotel, he knew well. Where he made his mistake, though, was in thinking that the noxious bundle of herbs about his neck was the cause of it. His odious personality had a lot to do with the chilly attitude of the management and his fellow guests.
He made his way to the bar, ignoring the heads that turned in surprise to follow the reeking comet-tail of his passage. He entered the red-leather-and-chromium drinking room, and stared about for Lawyer Wilson.
And blinked in surprise when he saw him. Wilson wasn’t alone. In the booth with him was a tall, dark figure, with his back to Harley. The back alone was plenty of recognition. Nicholls!
Wilson h
ad seen him. “Hello, Harley,” he said, all smiles and affability in the presence of the man with the money. “Come on and sit down. Mr. Nicholls dropped in on me a little while ago, so I brought him over.”
“Hello,” Harley said glumly, and Nicholls nodded. The muscles of his cheeks pulsed, and he seemed under a strain, strangely uncomfortable in Harley’s presence. Still there was a twinkle in the look he gave young Harley, and his voice was friendly enough—though supercilious—as he said:
“Hello, Harley. How is the trial going?”
“Ask him,” said Harley, pointing a thumb at Wilson as he slid his knees under the booth’s table and sat down. “He’s the lawyer. He’s supposed to know these things.”
“Doesn’t he?”
Harley shrugged and craned his neck for the waitress. “Oh, I guess so.… Rye and water!” He watched the girl appreciatively as she nodded and went off to the bar, then turned his attention back to Nicholls. “The trouble is,” he said, “Wilson may think he knows, but I think he’s all wet.”
Wilson frowned. “Do you imply—” he began, but Nicholls put up a hand.
“Let’s not bicker,” said Nicholls. “Suppose you answer my question. I have a stake in this, and I want to know. How’s the trial going?”
Wilson put on his most open-faced expression. “Frankly,” he said, “not too well. I’m afraid the judge is on the other side. If you listened to me and stalled till another judge came along—”
“I had no time to stall,” said Nicholls. “I have to be elsewhere within a few days. Even now, I should be on my way. Do you think we might lose the case?”
Harley laughed sharply. As Wilson glared at him he took his drink from the waitress’ tray and swallowed it. The smile remained on his face as he listened to Wilson say smoothly:
“There is a good deal of danger, yes.”
“Hum.” Nicholls looked interestedly at his fingernails. “Perhaps I chose the wrong lawyer.”
“Sure you did.” Harley waved at the waitress, ordered another drink. “You want to know what else I think? I think you picked the wrong client; spelled s-t-o-o-g-e. I’m getting sick of this. This damn thing around my neck smells bad. How do I know it’s any good, anyhow? Far as I can see, it just smells bad and that’s all.”
