“Same trouble you’ve got. Same trouble Red Ridinghood’s maternal grandparent had. Wolves. Tell you about it later. Right now I think I’d better get busy and see if I can think of some way to entice a nice fat angel into our parlor.”
“If you can catch one,” he said gloomily, “I’ll get you an honorary membership in the Society of American Magicians, with loving cup to match. The Broadway angel crop, this late in the season, has been pretty thoroughly picked over.”
Behind us a familiar voice suddenly said, “I think perhaps I can supply one.”
I nearly did a vanishing act of my own that wasn’t in the script, a descent without benefit of trap doors straight down through the floor. I still don’t know what prevented it.
The voice was Kathryn Wolff’s.
Chapter Six:
The Curious History
For a week now my most strenuous efforts had all been futile. I had chased clear to Florida and back, more than two thousand miles. Fines, phone calls, train and plane fares had reduced my bank account to the status of an exploded theory. And now, just as soon as I sat down and relaxed, she appeared out of nowhere like a jinni from a bottle.
I sat there for a moment, afraid to turn and look for fear that it might be only another of Merlini’s conjuring illusions. Then, getting up, he spoke. “You think you can supply—”
His voice tumbled suddenly headlong over a precipice and fell down out of sight. A weak astonished echo floated back. “What have you done to your hair?”
I took a chance and looked, expecting anything. If what I saw was a hallucination, it was visual as well as auditory. And worth, in my estimation, the full price of admission.
Though Kay wore no hat, I could see nothing wrong with her hair. It seemed to be just as usual, framing her face with gold and dropping down to break in a bright curling foam around her neck. Her clothes — the deep-blue dress that matched the color of her eyes, the short fur jacket thrown carelessly across her shoulders, the big, fire-engine red purse — were all out of Vogue by Bonwit Teller, but worn, as she always wore them, with a careless nonchalance.
She gave me a nod and half a smile, and said, “Hello, Ross.”
I had just zoomed up to the dizzy top of an emotional roller coaster. The completely impersonal tone of her voice, as cool and distant as the dark nebula in Orion, sent me dropping again, straight down.
She answered Merlini before I could speak, “Don’t you like my hair this way?”
“I do,” he said, still sounding a bit off balance. “I think I like it even better, especially that shade of blond. But I didn’t cast you as a lightning-change artist. Will it stay that way? I can’t order new costumes and scenery to match each time you change your mind.”
It was Greek to me — the whole conversation. That, or some lost Sanskrit dialect. “What goes on here?” I asked. “What color did you think her hair was? It’s always been blond.”
“Not last week it wasn’t,” Merlini said, eyeing me with some suspicion. “It was a dark shade of brunette. Apparently you two know each other?”
I nodded. “We did. But something slipped. Look, Kay, were you here in town rehearsing with Merlini all week?”
Merlini answered, “She’s on the pay roll, such as it is. She gets sawed in half in the first act, burned alive in the second, and is magically patched up again in time to go to town on the ‘Sleight of Heart’ song. And, as press agent, I want you to see that Miss Lamb gets—”
“Miss who?” I blurted.
“Lamb.” Merlini scowled at me. “L-a-m-b. Who did you think she was?”
“I know who she is. She’s a Wolff in—”
“In sheep’s clothing,” Kay cut in, addressing Merlini and still pretending that I wasn’t there. “I was wearing a wig on account of the detectives.”
“Oh, I see,” Merlini said, blinking a bit and not seeing any more than I did. “Detectives. You’re a fugitive from something?”
“From home. Dad and I disagreed, and I decided not to darken his door again, at least not until he calmed down. Last time that happened he ordered squads of private detectives. I was afraid they’d be watching all the theaters and booking agencies.”
Slowly, as if to see how it sounded, Merlini said, “Wolff. Kathryn Wolff.” Then he looked curiously at me. “If that’s who she is, why is it that you haven’t been around before now, Ross?”
Merlini knew I had been dating Kathryn Wolff with more regularity than I displayed toward the average blonde, but he hadn’t met her, at least not under that name.
“I’ve been vacationing,” I said. “A seven-day cruise around Robin Hood’s barn. Kay, there are one or two things I want to—”
But she wasn’t having any. “Merlini,” she cut in quickly, “don’t you want to hear about the angel I found?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.” He looked a bit baffled by my cryptic remarks and Kay’s attitude. “Sit down.” He waved his hand at the thousand or so empty seats that surrounded us, offering her all of them.
I was baffled too. I knew now that if she had been here in New York all week, she hadn’t been responsible for that telegram. And yet she was acting just as if she felt the way the wire had sounded. I didn’t get it at all. It didn’t even look as if I was going to get a chance to discuss it.
Merlini balanced himself on the back edge of row two, put his feet on the seat in row three, facing Kathryn. “Wolff,” he said again somewhat suspiciously. “That isn’t the angel’s name too, by any chance?”
Kay nodded. “Yes. It’s Dad. He’s in a jam. You’re the only person I know who can help, and if you do—”
Merlini seemed incredulous. “Wait,” he interrupted. “Did he actually tell you that he’d put money of his in a show of mine?”
“Well, no. He didn’t. But—’’
“I was afraid of that,” Merlini said disappointedly, seeing the promised financial backing fade. Dudley T. Wolff explodes violently like a shipment of his own blasting powder every time he hears my name mentioned. I’ve seen people run for cover thinking it was a thunderstorm. And yet you—”
Merlini halted. He didn’t seem, somehow, to be operating with his usual efficiency. “Jam?” he asked then, backtracking a bit. “What kind of a jam?”
Kay hesitated, lit a cigarette, took a nervous puff or two, and then forgot she had it. The gay, lighthearted smile which was so much her own that she could have patented it wasn’t there any longer.
“It’s — It’s—” She stopped as if facing a cold shower. Then suddenly, holding her breath, she plunged in. “Well, it’s a ghost.”
If the silence that followed that had been set aside to cool, it would have jelled.
“Ghost,” Merlini repeated uncertainly. “Lamb. Wolves. Angels. Detectives. Jam. And now ghost. You know I’m not quite sure I follow this, but go on.”
“I know how it sounds,” Kay said. “But I’m quite serious. Father and Francis Galt have at last got what they’ve always wanted — and it’s too much for them.” Kathryn spoke rapidly now, almost breathlessly. “Merlini, you’ve got to help. You’re chairman of the American Scientist’s psychic-investigating committee. You say you can duplicate any occult phenomena by ordinary magician’s means. The only other person who knows nearly as much about such things is Francis Galt, and he—”
She stopped uncertainly, frowning.
“Has approved the ghost?” Merlini asked.
“No,” she said slowly. “Not yet. He’s still investigating. But I’m afraid he will. Dad’s got his wind up badly, and if Galt—” Once again her voice trailed off. Her hands played nervously with her purse.
“That doesn’t sound like Dudley Wolff,” Merlini commented.