Smoke Ghost & Other Apparitions Page 4

  "I'm so sorry, Dick," murmured Delia. "That was rude of him." Then her voice took on a strangely eager note. "Did he leave the door of his workshop open?"

  Dick Wilkinson wrinkled his brow. "Why yes, I – I believe he did. At least, that was my impression. But, Delia–"

  Delia had already slipped on ahead, running swiftly up the steps. Hastily I said good-by to the perplexed insurance agent and I followed her.

  When I reached the second floor I went into a short hall. Through an open door I glimpsed the closely-ranked seats of the puppet theater. Delia was vanishing through another door down the hall. I followed her.

  Just as I came into a small reception room, I heard her scream.

  "George! George! He's whipping the puppet!"

  With that bewildering statement ringing in my ears, I darted into what I took to be Jock Lathrop's workshop, then pulled up short. It too was dim, but not as dim as the hall. I could see tables and racks of various kinds, and other paraphernalia.

  Delia was cowering back against a wall, stark fear in her eyes. But my attention was riveted on the small, stocky man in the center of the room – Delia's husband. On, or in, his left hand was a puppet. His gloved right hand held a miniature cat-o'-nine-tails and he was lashing the puppet. And the little manikin was writhing and flailing its arms protectively in a manner so realistic that it took my breath away. In that strange setting I could almost imagine I heard a squeaking, protesting voice. Indeed, the realism was such and the grin on Lathrop's face so malign that I heard myself saying:

  "Stop it, Jock! Stop it!"

  He looked up, saw me, and burst into peals of laughter. His snub-nosed, sallow face was contorted into a mask of comedy. I had expected anything but that.

  "So even the skeptical George Clayton, hard-boiled sleuth, is taken in by my cheap illusions!" he finally managed to say.

  Then he stopped chuckling and drew himself up nonchalantly, like a magician about to perform a feat of sleight-of-hand. He tossed the whip onto a nearby table, seized the puppet with his right hand and, to all appearances, wiggled his left hand out of it. Then he quickly flipped me the limp form, thrust both hands into his pockets, and began to whistle.

  Delia gave a low, whimpering cry and ran out of the room. If it had been easy for me to imagine a tiny, nude creature scuttling away behind Jock, half concealed by his left hand, what must it have been for her, in her tortured, superstitious state?

  "Examine the thing, George," Lathrop directed coolly. "Is it a puppet, or isn't it?"

  I looked down at the bundle of cloth and papier-mâché I had caught instinctively. It was a puppet all right, and in general workmanship precisely similar to the one Delia had shown me at my office. Its garments, however, were a gay, motley patchwork. I recognized the long nose and sardonic, impudent features of Punch.

  I was fascinated by the delicate craftsmanship. The face lacked the brutishness of Jack Ketch, but it had a cunning, hair-trigger villainy all its own. Somehow it looked like a composite of all the famous criminals and murderers I had ever read about. As the murderous hero of Punch and Judy, it was magnificent.

  But I had not come here to admire puppets.

  "Look here, Jock," I said, "what the devil have you been doing to Delia? The poor girl's frightened to death."

  He regarded me quizzically.

  "You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?" he said quietly. "I imagine she hunted you up as a friend, not in your capacity as a detective, but don't you think it would have been wiser to hear both sides of the case before forming judgment? I can imagine what sort of wild stories Delia's been telling you. She says I'm avoiding her, doesn't she? She says there's something queer about the puppets. In fact, she says they're alive, doesn't she?"

  I heard a furtive scuffling under the work table, and was startled in spite of myself. Jock Lathrop grinned, then whistled shrilly between his teeth. A white rat crept hesitatingly into view from behind a pile of odds and ends.

  "A pet," he announced mockingly. "Is it Delia's belief that I have trained rats to animate my puppets?"

  "Forget Delia's beliefs for the present!" I said angrily. "Whatever they are, you're responsible for them! You've no excuse in the world for mystifying her, terrifying her."

  "Are you so sure I haven't?" he said enigmatically.

  "Good Lord, she's your wife, Jock!" I flung at him.

  His face became serious and his words took on a deeper quality.

  "I know she's my wife," he said, "and I love her dearly. But George, hasn't the obvious explanation of all this occurred to you? I hate to say it, but the truth is that Delia is bothered by – er – neurotic fancies. For some crazy reason, without the slightest foundation she has become obsessed with some sort of deep-seated – and thoroughly unreasonable – jealousy, and she's directing it at the puppets. I can't tell you why. I wish I knew."

  "Even admitting that," I countered quickly, "why do you persist in mystifying her?"

  "I don't," he flatly denied. "If sometimes I keep her out of the workshop, it's for her own good."

  His argument was beginning to make sense. Jock Lathrop's voice had a compelling matter-of-fact quality. I was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous. Then I remembered something.

  "Those scratches on her face–" I began.

  "I've seen them," said Jock. "Again I hate to say it, but the only rational explanation I can see is that they were self-inflicted with the idea of bolstering up her accusations, or perhaps she scratched herself in her sleep. At any rate, people with delusions have been known to do drastic things. They'll go to any lengths rather than discard their queer beliefs. That's honestly what I think."

  Pondering this quiet statement, I was looking around. Here were all the tools of the expert puppet-maker. Molds, paints, varnishes, clay models of heads, unformed papier-mâché, paper clippings, and glue. A sewing machine littered with odds and ends of gay-colored cloth.

  Tacked above a desk were a number of sketches of puppets, some in pencil, some in colors. On a table were two half-painted heads, each atop a stick so that the brush could get at them more easily. Along the opposite wall hung a long array of puppets -princesses and Cinderellas, witches and wizards, peasants, oafs, bearded old men, devils, priests, doctors, kings. It almost made me feel as if a whole doll-world was staring at me and choking back raucous laughter.

  "Why haven't you sent Delia to a doctor?" I asked suddenly.

  "Because she refuses to go. For some time I've been trying to persuade her to consult a psychoanalyst."

  I didn't know what to say. The white rat moved into my line of vision. It occurred to me that a rat could be used to explain the scuffling sounds made by anything else, but I put such an irrational thought out of my mind. More and more I found myself being forced into complete agreement with Lathrop. Delia's suspicions were preposterous. Lathrop must be right.

  "Look here," I continued feebly, "Delia keeps talking about something that happened to you in London. A change. A sudden interest in genealogy."

  "I'm afraid the change was in Delia," he said bitterly. "As for the genealogy business, that's quite correct. I did find out some startling things about a man whom I believe to be an ancestor of mine."

  As he spoke, eagerly now, I was surprised to note how his features lost their tight, hard appearance. The look of impudence was gone.

  "I do love Delia very much," he said, his voice vibrant, low. "What would she think of me, George, if it turned out that her accusations were partly true? Of course, that's nonsense. But you can see that we are in trouble, George – bad trouble, that is considerably out of the line of work a private detective follows. Your work is concrete, though in your criminal investigations you must have learned that the mind and body of a man are sometimes subject to brutal powers. Not supernatural – no. But things – hard to talk about.

  "George, would you do something for me? Come to the performance tonight. Afterward we can discuss this whole matter more fully. And another thing. See
that old pamphlet over there? I have good reason for thinking it concerns an ancestor of mine. Take it with you. Read it. But for heaven's sake don't let Delia see it. You see, George–"

  He broke off uncertainly. He seemed about to take me into his confidence about something, but then the hard, self-contained look returned to his face.

  "Leave me now," he said abruptly. "This talk, and that business with the old fool, Franetti, has made me nervous."

  I walked over to the table, carefully laid down Punch, and picked up the yellow-paged, ancient pamphlet he had indicated.

  "I'll see you tonight after the show," I said.

  III

  Punch and Judy

  AS I CLOSED THE DOOR behind me, I thought I saw in Lathrop's eyes that same look of fear I had seen in Delia's. But it was deeper, much deeper. And only then did I remember that not once during our interview had Jock Lathrop taken his hands out of his pockets.

  Delia rushed up to me. I could tell she had been crying.

  "What will we do, George – what will we do? What did he say to you? What did he tell you?"

  I had to admit that her hectic manner was consistent with Jock's theory of neurotic fancies.

  "Is it true, Delia," I asked abruptly, "that he's been urging you to see a psychoanalyst?"

  "Why, yes." Then I saw her stiffen. "Jock's been telling you it's only my imagination, and you've been believing him," she accused.

  "No, that's not it," I lied, "but I want to have time to think it all over. I'm coming to the performance tonight. I'll talk with you then."

  "He has persuaded you!" she insisted, clinging to my sleeve. "But you mustn't believe him, George. He's afraid of them! He's in worse trouble than I am."

  "I agree with you partly," I said, not knowing this time whether I was lying or not, "and after the performance we'll talk it over."

  She suddenly drew away. Her face had lost something of its helpless look.

  "If you won't help me," she said, breathing heavily, "I know a way of finding out whether I'm right or wrong. A sure way."

  "What do you mean, Delia?"

  "Tonight," she said huskily, "you may find out."

  More than that she wouldn't say, although I pressed her. I took away with me a vision of her distraught gray eyes, contrasted oddly with the thick sweep of golden hair. I hurried through the hall, down the stairs. The measured pandemonium of Forty-second Street was welcome. It was good to see so many people, walk with them, be jostled by them and forget the fantastic fears of Delia and Jock Lathrop.

  I glanced at the pamphlet in my hand. The type was ancient and irregular. The paper was crumbly at the edges. I read the lengthy title:

  A TRUE ACCOUNT, as related by a Notable Personage to a Trustworthy Gentleman, of the CIRCUMSTANCES attending the Life and DEATH of JOCKEY LOWTHROPE, an Englishman who gave PUPPET SHEWS; telling how many surmised that his Death was encompassed by these same PUPPETS.

  Night was sliding in over New York. My office was a mass of shadows. From where I was sitting I could see the mammoth Empire State Building topping the irregular skyline.

  I rubbed my eyes wearily. But that did not keep my thoughts from their endless circling. Who was I to believe? Delia or Jock? Was there a disordered mind at work, fabricating monstrous suspicions? And if so, whose mind was it? They were questions outside the usual province of a private detective.

  I TILTED the pamphlet to catch the failing light and re-read two passages that had particularly impressed me.

  At this Time it was rumored that Jockey Lowthrope had made a Pact with the Devil, with a view to acquiring a greater Skill in his Trade. There were many who testified privately that his Puppets acted and moved with a Cunningbeyond the ability of Christian Man to accomplish. For Jockey took no assistants and would explain to no one how his Manikins were activated...

  Some say that Moll Squires and the French Doctor did not tell all they saw when they first viewed Jockey's Corpse. Certain it was that a long, thin Needle pierced his Heart and that both Hands were hacked off at the Wrists. Jockey's wife, Lucy, would have been held for Trial for Murder at the Assizes, only that she was never seen afterwards. Moll Squires averred that the Devil had come to fetch Jockey's hands, to which he had previous granted an unholy Skill. But many maintain that he was slain by his own Puppets, who chose the Needle as being a Weapon suitable to their Size and Dexterity. These recall how the Clergyman Penrose inveighed against Jockey, saying, "Those are not Puppets, but Imps of Satan, and whosoever views them is in Danger of Damnation."

  I pushed the pamphlet to one side. What could one make of events that had happened one hundred and fifty years ago – faint reverberations from the Eighteenth Century fear-world that had underlaid the proud Age of Reason? Especially when one read of them in an account obviously written for the sake of sensation-mongering?

  True, the names were oddly similar. Lowthrope and Lathrop were undoubtedly alternate spellings. And from what Jock had said he had further evidence of a blood relationship.

  The pamphlet angered me, made me feel as if someone were trying to frighten me with nursery tales of ghosts and goblins.

  I switched on the light and blinked at the electric clock. It was seven-forty-five ...

  When I reached the puppet theater it was buzzing with conversation and the hall outside was already blue with cigarette smoke. Just as I was getting my ticket from the sad-eyed girl at the door, someone called my name. I looked up and saw Dr. Grendal. I could tell that the garrulous old man had something on his mind besides his shiny, bald pate. After a few aimless remarks he asked his question.

  "Seen Jock since he got back from London?"

  "Just to say hello to," I answered cautiously.

  "How'd he impress you, hey?" The doctor's eyes glanced sharply from behind their silver-rimmed spectacles.

  "A little uneasy," I admitted. "Temperamental."

  "I thought you might say something like that," he commented, as he led me over to an empty corner. "Fact is," he continued, "I think he's definitely queer. Between ourselves, of course. He called me in. I thought he needed me in a professional capacity. But it turned out he wanted to talk about pygmies."

  He couldn't have surprised me more.

  "Pygmies?" I repeated.

  "Just so. Pygmies. Surprised you, didn't it? Did me, too. Well, Jock was especially curious about the lower limits of possible size of mature human beings. Kept asking if there were any cases in which they were as small as puppets. I told him it was impossible, except for infants and embryos.

  "Then he began shifting the conversation. Wanted to know a lot about blood relationship and the inheritance of certain traits. Wanted to know all about identical twins and triplets and so on. Evidently thought I'd be a mine of data because of the monographs I've scribbled about medical oddities. I answered as best I could, but some of his questions were queer. Power of mind over matter, and that sort of stuff. I got the impression his nerves were about to crack. Told him as much. Whereupon he told me to get out. Peculiar, hey?"

  I could not answer. Dr. Grendal's information put new life into the disturbing notions I had been trying to get out of my mind. I wondered how much I dared tell the old physician, or whether it would be unwise to confide in him at all.

  The people in the hall were moving into the theater. I made a noncommittal remark to Grendal and we followed. A rotund figure pushed in ahead of us, muttering -Luigi Franetti. Evidently he had not been able to resist the temptation presented by his former student's puppets. He threw down the price of the ticket contemptuously, as if it were the thirty pieces of silver due Judas Iscariot. Then he stamped in, sat down, folded his arms, and glared at the curtain.

  There must have been two hundred people present, almost a full house. I noticed quite a splash of evening dresses and dress suits. I didn't see Delia, but I noted the prim features of Dick Wilkinson, the insurance agent.

  From behind the curtain came the reedy tinkle of a music box – tones suggestive of a doll
orchestra. The seats Grendal and I had were near the front, but considerably to one side.

  The little theater grew dim. A soft illumination flowed up the square of red silk curtain. The melody from the music box ended on a note so high it sounded as though something in the mechanism had snapped. A pause. The deep, somber reverberation of a gong. Another pause. Then a voice, which I recognized as Lathrop's pitched in falsetto.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment Lathrop's Puppets present – Punch and Judy!"

  From behind me I heard Franetti's "Bah!"

  Then the curtain parted and slid rustling to the sides. Punch popped up like a jack-in-the-box, chuckled throatily, and began to antic around the stage and make bitingly witty remarks, some of them at the expense of the spectators.

  It was the same puppet Jock had let me examine in the workshop. But was Jock's hand inside? After a few seconds I quit worrying about that. This, I told myself, was only an ordinary puppet show, as clever as the manipulations were. The voice was Jock Lathrop's, pitched in puppeteer's falsetto.

  It is ironic that Punch and Judy is associated with children and the nursery, for few plays are more fundamentally sordid. Modern child educators are apt to fling up their hands at mention of it. It is unlike any fairy tale or phantasy, but springs from forthright, realistic crime.

  Punch is the prototype of the egotistical, brutish criminal – the type who today figures as an axefiend or sashweight slayer. He kills his squalling baby and nagging wife, Judy, merely because they annoy him. He kills the doctor because he doesn't like the medicine. He kills the policeman who comes to arrest him. Finally, after he is thrown into jail and sentenced to death, he manages to outwit and murder the fearsome executioner Jack Ketch.