“I would like to know,” he asked, “if the counsel for the plaintiff is in possession of any diaries after nineteen twenty?”
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 nineteen twenty-one. The case concerns itself only with the supposed occupation of Harley Hall by the so-called Jenkins in the last twenty years- since ‘twenty-one. 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 nineteen twenty-one 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 for recognition. Nicholls!
Wilson had 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’d 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.”
“It works,” Nicholls said succinctly. “I wouldn’t advise you to go without it. The late Hank Jenkins is not a very strong ghost-a strong one would tear you apart and chew up your herbs for dessert but without the protection of what you wear about your neck, you would become a very uncomfortable human as soon as Jenkins heard you’d stopped wearing it.”
He put down the glass of red wine he’d been inhaling without drinking, looked intently at Wilson. “I’ve put up the money in this,” he said. “I had hoped you’d be able to handle the legal end. I see I’ll have to do more. Now listen intently, because I have no intention of repeating this. There’s an angle to this case that’s got right by your blunted legal acumen. Jenkins claims to be an astral entity, which he undoubtedly is. Now, instead of trying to prove him a ghost, and legally dead, and therefore unfit to testify, which you have been doing, suppose you do this…”
He went on to speak rapidly and to the point.
And when he left them a bit later, and Wilson took Harley up to his room and poured him into bed, the lawyer felt happy for the first time in days.
Russell Joseph Harley, a little hung over and a lot nervous, was called to the stand as first witness in his own behalf.
Wilson said, “Your name?”
“Russell Joseph Harley.”
“You are the nephew of the late Zebulon Harley, who bequeathed the residence known as Harley Hall to you?”
“Yes.”
Wilson turned to the bench. “I offer this copy of the late Mr. Zebulon Harley’s will in evidence. All his possessions are left to his nephew and only living kin, the defendant.”
Turnbull spoke from his desk. “The plaintiff in no way disputes the defendant’s equity in Harley Hall.”
Wilson continued, “You passed part of your childhood in Harley Hall, did you not, and visited it as a grown man on occasion?”
“Yes.”
“At any time, has anything in the shape of a ghost, specter or astral entity manifested itself to you in Harley Hall?”
“No. I’d remember it.”
“Did your late uncle ever mention any such manifestation to you?”
“Him? No.”
“That’s all.”
Turnbull came up for the cross-examination.
“When, Mr. Harley, did you last see your uncle before his death?”
“It was in nineteen thirty-eight. In September, some time-around the tenth or eleventh of the month.”
“How long a time did you spend with him?,’
Harley flushed unaccountably. “Ah-just one day,” he said.
“When before that did you see him?,’
“Well, not since I was quite young. My parents moved to Pennsylvania in nineteen twenty…
“And since then-except for that one-day visit in nineteen thirty-eight-has any communication passed between your uncle and yourself?”
“‘No, I guess not. He was a rather queer duck-solitary. A little bit balmy, I think.”
“‘Well, you’re a loving nephew. But in view of what you’ve just said, does it sound surprising that your uncle never told you of Mr. Jenkins? He never had much chance to, did he?”
“He had a chance in nineteen thirty-eight, but he didn’t,” Harley said defiantly.
Turnbull shrugged. “I’m finished, “ he said.
Gimbel began to look bored. He had anticipated something more in the way of fireworks. He said, “Has the defense any further witnesses?”
Wilson smiled grimly. “Yes, your honor,… he said. This was his big moment, and he smiled again as he said gently, “I would like to call Mr. Henry Jenkins to the stand.”
In the amazed silence that followed, Judge Gimbel leaned forward. “‘You mean you wish to call the plaintiff as a witness for the defense?”
Serenely, “Yes, your honor.”
Gimbel grimaced. “Call Henry Jenkins,” he said wearily to the clerk, and sank back in his chair.
Turnbull was looking alarmed. He bit his lip, trying to decide whether to object to this astonishing procedure, but finally shrugged as the clerk bawled out the ghost’s name.