COMPLIMENTS OF THE AUTHOR
by Lewis Padgett (Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore)
"IF YOU KNOW what's good for you," said the cat, "you'll get the hell out of here. But quick!"
Sam Tracy thoughtfully patted the bottle in his topcoat pocket. The gesture was only a momentary confession of weakness, for the Journal reporter wasn't drunk. He had several vices, including a profitable side line of blackmail, but dipsomania wasn't one of them. No, there was a simpler explanation-ventriloquism.
Tracy's gaze went past the cat to where Baldwin Gwinn's house loomed darkly above him, a big, ramshackle place in an isolated section of Laurel Canyon. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. Tracy didn't want witnesses during his impending interview with Gwinn. Gwinn would pay off, of course; the evidence against the man was overwhelming. And, since Tracy was the only one who possessed that evidence in its entirety, an attempt to collect hush money was clearly indicated. The principle was nothing new, either in Hollywood or to Sam Tracy. He was a lank, dark, saturnine man of forty-odd, with a permanent sneer of cynicism on his aquiline face, and a profound trust in his own ability to come out on top. Till tonight, however, he had not had occasion to cross swords with a magician. But that didn't matter: Gwinn had made a mistake, and the result should mean cash in the bank for Tracy. He could always use money. A succession of very interesting blondes, to which he was partial, the Santa Anita track, the casinos along the Sunset Strip, and zombies, minks, and melodious bowlings-the Hollywood equivalent of wine, women, and song-combined to keep the bank account overdrawn. But Tracy had excellent connections, and was always willing to suppress a scandal, C.O.D. He never put the squeeze on widows or orphans, either. They seldom had money.
Now in one pocket he had a bottle of whiskey, in another certain significant photostats, and in a third a useful little automatic, very handy for bluffing his way out of tight spots. It was night. Gwinn's house was in a pocket of the Hollywood Hills, isolated, though a few lights gleamed from distant slopes. Stars and a spotlight of a moon were garish overhead. The reporter's sleek dark coupe was parked unobtrusively under a pepper tree, and a fat black cat with white mittens of paws sat on the curbstone twitching its whiskers at Sam Tracy.
"Ventriloquism, Mr. Gwinn," said the reporter gently, "is O.K. for the sticks. But don't waste it on me."
"Ventriloquism, hell," the cat replied, glaring balefully. "Don't you know a familiar when you see one? Baldy knows you're coming, and he's all upset. I'd hate to lose him. He's a fine master. I warn you, louse, that if you hurt Baldy, I, personally, will take steps."
Tracy aimed a kick at the cat, but it was deftly avoided. The creature cursed in a fervid undertone and went behind a convenient bush, from which low, searing oaths proceeded. Tracy's cynical sneer increased in intensity. He walked up the steps and rang the bell.
"The door's open," said the cat. "You're expected."
Tracy shrugged and obeyed. The room in which he found himself was big, comfortably furnished, and didn't look at all like the home of a practicing magician. Etchings hung on the walls. A Bokhara rug, slightly singed, was on the floor. At a big table by the window a fat man with a cast in one eye was sitting, staring down unhappily at an open book before him.
"Hello, Gwinn," the reporter said.
Gwinn sighed and looked up. "Hello, Tracy. Sit down. Cigar?"
"No, thanks. You know me?"
Gwinn pointed to a crystal ball un a tripod in one corner.
"I saw you in that. You won't believe it, of course, but I'm really a magician."
Tracy grinned. "Sure. I believe it. So do lots of other people. Like Ina Phairson."
Gwinn didn't turn a hair. "Such things are necessary in my profession."
"Rather tough on Ina Phairson, though. And it'd look bad in the papers. In fact, it'd look awful."
"It would mean the gas chamber, or at best a long prison term. I know. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about it."
Tracy took out the photostats and laid them on the table. He didn't say anything. Gwinn shuffled through the documents, nodding. His thick lips pursed.
"You have all the evidence, I see. The trouble is that I can't pay blackmail. It isn't allowed."
"Blackmail's an ugly word," Tracy said. "Let's call it a dividend. Five thousand bucks and this evidence goes up the spout. I'll raise my price tomorrow."
Gwinn said, "You don't understand. I made a pact with the devil some years ago, and there were certain terms in the contract. One of them is that I'm not allowed to pay blackmail."
"Suit yourself." Tracy shrugged. "You can keep those photostats. I have the originals, of course. There'll be a story about you in tomorrow's Journal."
"No-no. I don't want that." Gwinn glanced worriedly at the book before him, and closed it with a snap.
Tracy's face didn't change, but a new look came into his eyes. That small volume had the look of a diary, or an account book. It would be interesting to thumb through it. There might be names, facts, and figures, all of which would be useful and perhaps profitable.
The book had a plain cloth cover, and on the front was a small white oval against the brown. In gold script was engraved, "Baldwin Gwinn." Tracy read the name upside down.
"I haven't all night," he said. "Give me an answer. I don't care what it is. I'll act accordingly."
Gwinn fingered his thick lower lip. "It's no use, of course," he said under his breath. "Still-"
He threw a handful of nothing at the fireplace, and flames blazed up with blue brilliance. Then he plucked a wax figurine out of empty air and examined it thoughtfully. It was about six inches high, and was a perfect replica of Tracy.
He threw it into the fire.
"I've heard of that," Tracy said. "But I don't believe it."
"Then it won't work," Gwinn muttered, but waited, nevertheless. For a brief moment Tracy felt uncomfortably warm. He didn't show it. He grinned tightly, and the feeling went away.
Then, without warning, there was a third person in the room. His name was Andy Monk, and two years ago he had died at the hands of the law, as a result of a feature story Tracy had written. Monk wouldn't pay blackmail, either. And Tracy had always been afraid of the man and his handiness with a knife. For months, till Monk was captured, he had gone in fear of shadows.
Monk was a shadow now, and Tracy knew that. Hypnosis was old stuff. But the hatred blazing in the man's eyes was horribly disturbing.
Monk had a gun, and he fired it at Tracy. The bullets weren't real, of course. Tracy braced himself against the impact; almost to his surprise, he realized that he was trembling violently. Hypnotism, but-Monk threw away his gun and took out a long-bladed knife. Tracy had always been afraid of that knife. He tried to look through the phantom, but Monk was visibly, if not tangibly, real. Maybe he was tangible, after all. Bullets were one matter. Ghost bullets. A knife was another, somehow. Blue firelight rippled up the blade.
Tracy didn't want even an intangible knife slicing at his throat. He was scared now. His heart was pounding violently. He hastily took out his automatic and said hoarsely, "Turn it off, Gwinn. Quick!"
He couldn't see Gwinn, because the room was very dark, and Monk was plunging forward, laughing, the knife driving up viciously. Tracy chewed his lip, gave back a step, and fired. Instantly he regretted the weakness.
He regretted it even more as Monk vanished, and he saw Gwinn slumped in his chair, the top of his head blown off.
The magician's eyes were wide open, but unseeing. Tracy stood quite motionless for several minutes breathing hard. Then he shoved the gun back in his pocket, stepped forward, and picked up the brown book from the table. He didn't touch the body. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the doorknobs as he went out of the house, and, standing in the friendly darkness, he found the whiskey bottle in his coat and drank deeply. It helped.