Nash's face fell further and further. The official said: "Cheer uppa, signor. They will notta take more than eighty percent of this estate."
"At least," said Nash in a choked voice, "Iwant the text of all your tax laws."."Certainly, signor!" The assistant collector fished out a pile of pamphlets."In view of da size of da estate, we will iffa you like send a esspert to helpa you—"
"No, thanks. I can fill out tax returns all right."
"Fina! You will be back in a few daysa? You and your ladies mus' notta leava Staten Island until da taxes are paid, you know."
Early and bright the next morning Nash showed up at the revenue office. He cheerfully laid the six forms down on the assistant collector's desk,. and then began to shell money out of his belt.
The official smiled broadly. As he looked at the forms his smile faded. His eyes popped."Thir-teena dollars anda ninety-four cents on an estate of five hundred thous'! Dio mio, it is imposs'!"
Nash grinned."It's possible all right. Just look at all those deductions! Check it over all you want."
The assistant collector jumped up and bounced into the office of the collector, and the two reappeared and held a muttered consultation in Italian over the returns. Finally the collector spoke to Nash: "Looka, signor, what is thissa deducsh? You try to get away witta something, si?"
"Let's see.,. oh, that! That's authorized by the amendment to the personal property tax, dated 1893. Hasn't been repealed as far as I can see."
The collector sputtered."All those old deducsh —dissa man is a magish!"
"No, though I sometimes wish I were. If you can't find anything wrong with my returns, I'd like my receipt, please."
"Ah, signor," said the collector, "is no hurry! Why not stay around our beautiful Staten Island a few daysa longer?"
Nash shook his head, not caring to hang around until Duke Alessandro had a chance to issue some retroactive decree plugging all the loopholes that Nash had so laboriously discovered.
The officials urged him some more, until their importunities took on a tone of veiled menace.
Then Nash said: "Of course I might settle here —I could find out who your biggest taxpayers are and make a living as a tax expert."
"Oh, no, in thatta case! If you mus' go, you mus' go! We woulda not theenk of detaining you!"
Nash got his receipts, but when he tried to get his gun licenses the clerk, who had been tipped off, refused on the ground that an estate taxable only to the extent of thirteen dollars and ninety-four cents could not need much protection.
Nash returned to his castle just as a couple of men arrived: one of them on a homemade and extremely noisy motorcycle; the other, in top hat and cutaway, in a buggy. There were passionate embraces with the girls they had come to fetch, and a gala departure with much waving and feminine tears. More departures followed; Alicia handled the breaking-up of the harem in her usual competent manner.
Nash rounded up the eight slaves and asked them: "How would you boys like your freedom?"
"Freedom?" replied one."But, effendi, we belong to Arslan Bey!"
"I'm afraid he's dead, or he'd have joined us by now. I repeat: how would you like to be your own masters?"
They exchanged dazed glances. One said: "Oh, effendi, not belong to anyone? That would be terrible! We'd die!"
Nash tried to sell them the beauties of liberty.
but the only result was that they got down on their knees, wept, and prayed that he would not do such a thing to them.
Nash gave up and went in to lunch. Afterward he hiked down to Tompkinsville to find the headquarters of Merlin Apollonius Stark, whose address he had gotten from Nathan the jeweler.
The address was 160 St. Paul's Avenue, a street of small one- and two-story houses of the suburban residence type. He soon found 158; the lot south of it was vacant, and on the other side of ths open space was 162.
He walked back to 158 to make sure.
Gosh! Had he forgotten the correct number— no, he never forgot things like that. Had Nathan misinformed him, or had Merlin Apollonius mag-icked his house down to portable size and gone off with it?
"Come on," crackled a voice from the empty air in the middle of the vacant lot."Don't stand there. Walk up the path and ring the doorbell!"
Chapter XII.
Nash walked slowly up the path. His fifth step brought him to the last flagstone. The lawn also ended at this point, and the waste of hard-packed brown earth and green weeds that comprised the rest of the lot was sharp in the bright, cool sun. A small breeze stirred Nash's cloak and drove a couple of dead leaves tumbling across his vision.
"Come on! Up the steps with you!"
Nash frowned. Merlin Stark must be having fun with him. Well, two could play. Nash drew his sword and used it like a blind man's cane. He located two steps leading up from the end of the path; the scrape made by the point sounded like stone or concrete. As he ascended he discovered a door, invisible like the steps, and began poking it.
"Hey! Stop scratching my door up!"
"Well, fix your doorbell so I can see it!" retorted Nash.
"Oh, come on in and stop fooling around." A large dark rectangle the size of a door opened in the empty space in front of Nash, who found himself looking down a hall with an old-fashioned hall tree in the foreground.
"In here, M. de Nêche!" The voice was now obviously much like that of Monty Stark. Nash hung his cloak and plumed hat on one of the antlers of the hall tree, took a look at himself in the mirror, and entered.
Nash expected to see an improved version of Montague Allen Stark. But what he saw was more arresting: apparently Monty Stark himself with a long white false beard attached to his chin.
"Mont... uh, hello, Mr. Stark!" Nash covered his confusion with a formal Seventeenth-Century bow. He advanced to shake the hand that the astral Stark, half rising, extended across his desk.
Now that Nash had a closer look, he was fairly sure that the beard was real. The only trouble was that it did not go with the crisp brown hair, partly covered by a skullcap, and the plump young face. It was just like Monty, in imagining himself a magician, simply to slap a snowy beard on his face without bothering to alter. the rest of his physique to match.
The astral Stark wore a dark-blue judicial robe embroidered with astronomical symbols. On Nash's left was a lower desk bearing a typewriter. Behind the desk sat a young woman in an exceedingly gauzy dress. The girl was small and slim, with fair skin, enormous blue eyes, and a fragile, unearthly beauty. Another navy-blue robe lay across her lap, and on this she was embroidering an additional symboclass="underline" a thing combining the upper half of P with the lower half of L.
"Pluto," explained Stark."She thinks I ought to bring my paraphernalia up to date. I hope they don't discover any more planets for a while. You know, M. de Nêche, I had a feeling somebody like you was looking for me."
Of course, thought Nash, a genuine magician would know his client's name without being told. He said: "Quite a trick, making your house invisible."
Stark handed Nash a cigar and lit one himself."I thought those dead leaves were pretty cute. You have to time their apparent motion so it coincides with a puff of real wind."
"What's the big idea? To keep away hoi polloi?"
The wizard chuckled. With the cigar sticking up out of one corner of his grin, he was, except for the phony-looking bush, the same cocky Montague that Nash had known in his own plane."Why do lawyers use Latin? If a professional man doesn't mix a little hokum with his art, he doesn't get any clients. Now, what can I do for you?"