Miss Shumway Waves a Wand Page 13

  “Myra?” I called, “What are you up to?”

  A sleepy voice came from across the room, “What is it?”

  I groped for the switch and turned it on.

  Myra sat up in bed. She was in a pair of gay pyjamas and she looked at me crossly. “What’s the big idea?” she snapped, “take that drink sodden face out of here and put it under a pillow.”

  I stared at her. “But, you passed me a moment ago,” I said, feeling startled, “do you usually get into bed in two seconds?”

  She sat further up in the bed. “You’re tight,” she said. “I’ve been asleep since eleven o’clock. Go away!”

  I came into the room. “Seriously, sweetheart,” I said, “someone came upstairs. I thought it was you. Damn it, I’ll swear it was you.”

  “This sounds mightily like the silk-worm gag,” she said, “get out of my room before I toss you out, you drunken heel!”

  This brought me up short. I looked at her. This was the Myra I’d known in Mexico. A sudden change had come over her from the Myra I’d known during the past three days.

  “Take it easy,” I said, “I’m not as tight as all that,” and I walked over to where her clothes were lying. I touched her dress. It was warm. “You’ve just got out of this,” I said, picking it up.

  “Where did you get that from?” she asked, startled, “I put all my clothes away before I went to bed.”

  “Yeah? Well, there’s a complete outfit on this chair. Look, one of us is nuts and it ain’t me.”

  She climbed out of bed and came over. “But, I haven’t had these things out of my trunk since we came here,” she said, uneasily.

  “Okay,” I said dropping the dress. “Forget it. I don’t want to know where you’ve been tonight. You don’t have to lie so hard.”

  “I’m not lying!” she said angrily, “you’re trying to make a fool out of me!”

  “I couldn’t do that,” I said, suddenly feeling too tired to argue. “Go to sleep,” and I walked out and left her.

  I don’t mind telling you it preyed on my mind. I couldn’t get to sleep and I began imagining all kinds of things. I could have swore that whoever it was who’d gone upstairs had been Myra. Yet it didn’t seem possible for her to get into bed and feign sleep in so short a time. Yet, that was what she must have done.

  Why had she pretended to be asleep? What had she been up to? Or was she speaking the truth? That’s how it went on in my mind for nearly the rest of the night. But, I did eventually get some sleep.

  The next morning, while I was shaving, Doc Ansell came into my room.

  “Hello there,” I said as I mowed my beard with an electric razor. “Have I got a hangover or have I?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ansell said, sitting on the foot of the bed. “I’m not happy about certain things.”

  “What things?”

  “That girl in the photograph,” Ansell said slowly, “how do you explain she’s the image of Myra?”

  I selected a necktie and wandered over to the mirror. “I don’t,” I said.

  “That’s just the point. She hasn’t a twin and you’ll never make me believe that some other girl, no relation of hers, could look like her.”

  “Well, that’s what’s happened,” I said. “Maybe, Shumway got hold of an actress who’s made herself up to look like Myra. A guy like him would do a lot for all that dough.”

  Ansell shook his head, “I think there’s more in it than that,” he said, “I’m not saying you haven’t hit on the explanation, but I don’t think so.”

  “Quit beating about the bush,” I said, facing him, “what are you getting at?”

  “Haven’t you noticed a change in the girl recently?” he asked.

  Then I remembered what happened last night. “There was a change,” I said slowly, “but now she’s back where she started.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What happened last night?”

  I told him.

  He sat listening, his face grave and his eyes worried. When I’d finished, he smacked one hand into the other. “Then I’m right!” he said. “There are two of them. Strange and powerful influences are around.”

  “Now, don’t start that,” I said irritably. “It’s bad enough…”

  “Did you ever read a book called ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’?” I stared at him, “I guess so, but what has that…?”

  “Plenty,” Ansell broke in, “you remember it’s a story of the separating of the good and evil in man. Did you know that the Naguales have this power? I think that’s what’s happened to Myra.”

  I put my coat on slowly and looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t looking too good in the hard sunlight. I looked pale and there were smudges under my eyes.

  “If you can’t talk sense, you’d better shut up,” I said at last.

  “It’s only because you refuse to believe,” Ansell said quietly. “Ignorance breeds fear. You’re becoming frightened.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. I could see he wouldn’t let it go, so I thought we might as well have it out.

  “Give me a retake,” I said.

  “This is what I think’s happened,” Ansell said. “Quintl has separated the good and bad in Myra and has put each of these components into materialized form. The form naturally follows the original pattern. So we have two Myras, both of them exactly alike, but one has all the good qualities that a human being possesses while the other has all the bad ones. Now, do you understand?”

  “It’s crazy,” I said, hating every bit of this.

  Ansell shook his head, “It isn’t, if you know about these things. If I told you that the dog would talk, you wouldn’t have believed it. Now, you admit you accept it as a fact.”

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking again of what happened last night. “So you really think she can become two people or rather possess two different bodies when she wants to?”

  “I think so. Perhaps not when she wants to, but when she’s not aware of what’s happening and is off her guard. Let’s put it that way.”

  “That would account for what happened last night. They’ve become one again.”

  “But what has the other one been doing?”

  “That’s something we’ve got to find out. That’s where Myra’s danger lies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go back to first principles,” Ansell said. “We have all latent evil in our make-up. Some of us haven’t the same control over this instinct as others. It depends on our training, our environment and our strength of character whether this instinct gets the upper hand. If the evil in us is segregated without the restraining influence of our instinct for doing good, then something entirely primitive has been created and may cause a lot of destruction. I’d hate to see Myra suffer for something she hasn’t done.”

  This was beyond me. “Something she hasn’t done?” I repeated.

  “Yes. Suppose now, the other Myra, the Myra in the photograph, takes it into her head to commit a crime. Might not the Myra we know get the blame for it?”

  “Why should she?”

  “It depends if the other Myra is seen while committing the crime,” Ansell returned.

  “They’re exactly alike. The finger prints would be the same. Both girls are easily recognized. Can’t you see what danger there might be in all this?”

  I drew a deep breath, “You’re looking for trouble,” I said. “This business is too much for me. What we’ve got to do is to get after Shumway. Now, come on, I smell breakfast.”

  “Wait,” Ansell said. “What about this fellow Kelly? Maybe, we can get on to him.”

  “Maybe, we can,” I said. “We’ll talk it over at breakfast.”

  In the living room, Bogle was setting the table “All ready, Bud,” he said to me. “Pried ham and eggs, whaddayssay?”

  “Sounds fine,” I said. “Isn’t Myra coming down?”

  “Naw,” Sam said, going into the kitchen. “A dame like that likes to lay around in bed. Besides
, it takes her half the morning to get up. I like to get breakfast over with.”

  When he had gone, I said to Ansell, “Old Sam’s getting like a gawdamn housewife. Do you think he’s going soft or something?”

  Ansell shook his head absently. “He always wanted to have a place of his own,” he said.

  “Many a time, in the desert, he’d talk about setting up home. Funny thing, isn’t it? Yet he’s mixed with the toughest thugs of Chicago. And now look at him, running around, keeping the house clean, cooking and waiting on Myra.”

  Just then Sam came in with a tray and put the food on the table. He then shot back into the kitchen, came out again with a smaller tiny and carried it off to Myra’s room.

  “Kelly,” I said, with my mouth full. “That’s an idea, Doc. I wonder if we can get a line on him.”

  “Maybe your paper would know,” Ansell returned, pouring out the coffee. “Anyone there you can ask?”

  I thought for a moment, “Yeah, Dowdy’s the guy. He’s sort of secretary to Maddox. He ought to know something.”

  Sam came back, whistling cheerfully and pulled a chair up to the table. He sat down, “That dog murders me,” he said “Jeeze! You never seen anything like it. He’s in with the kid and they’re talking away like a couple of professors. What they find to talk about, beats me.”

  “Never mind about them,” I said, pushing the plate of fried ham over to him. “So long as they don’t fight, what does it matter? I admit I don’t find Whisky too easy to talk to. Maybe, it’s because he kind of embarrasses me.”

  “He’s a smart guy, that dog,” Bogle said, spearing the ham with his fork. “He’s got a political mind.”

  “You wouldn’t know this fellow Kelly?” Ansell asked. “The one who’s helping Shumway.”

  “Kelly?” Bogle repeated. “There’s millions of Kelly’s. I know two or three of ’em, but unless I saw the guy, I couldn’t say.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Doc,” I said, helping myself to more coffee. “I’ll go down to the Recorder as soon as I’ve finished. Maybe, I’ll get something.”

  “Yeah,” Bogle broke in, “ain’t it time we found this Shumway guy? When we do get him, he’ll have spent all that jack.”

  “We’re doing our best,” Ansell said. “You don’t seem exactly full of ideas, Sam.” He pushed his plate away and wandered over to an armchair. He sat down and began to read the newspaper.

  Whisky wandered in, “Hey-ho,” he said, with a flick of his tail “What’s buzzin’, cousin?”

  “Don’t,” I said, pushing back my chair and lighting a cigarette. “Try to speak pure English if you’re going to speak at all. I think Sam’s accent is affecting you.”

  “Don’t be a prig,” Whisky returned, wandering over to Sam, “Well, my old,” he went on to Sam, resting his long muzzle on Sam’s knee, “What have you got for my breakfast? That ham looked a little fat to me.”

  “I’ll cut the fat off,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about a little thing like that, or I’ve got a steak. Howjer like that?”

  “Mmm,” Whisky said. “Let’s go find it. That sounds like something.”

  They went off into the kitchen.

  “The airs and graces that dog gives himself kills me,” I said. “Steak for breakfast! He’ll get too fat.”

  “Too fat for what?” Sam asked, putting his head round the door. “You be careful what you’re saying. You ain’t no hour-glass yourself.”

  “From where I’m standing,” Whisky added, pushing his snout round the door, “that bulge in your waist line looks like a six-course lunch the waiter forgot, to take out of the casserole.”

  “Aw, beat it, you two,” I said grinning. “My waist line’s all right. Well, I’ll get over to the Recorder. So long, Doc.”

  Ansell waved, “So long,” he said.

  I thought I’d say hello and good-bye to Myra so I tapped on her door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  I pushed the door open and walked in. I didn’t sea her in bed and I looked round the room blankly.

  “Hello there,” I said, “where’ve you gone?”

  “Good morning, Ross,” Myra said, and patted me lightly on my head.

  She was floating near the ceiling, a book in her hand and a cigarette between her lips.

  “Holy Moses!” I said, starting back. “Must you do that?”

  “Why not?” she said, “Haven’t you heard the saying ‘I’m walking on air’? Well, I’m lying on it. It’s very comfortable and restful.”

  She floated slowly down until her face was level with mine then she put her arm round my neck and lowered her feet to the ground. She stood with difficulty.

  “I’m feeling very light, this morning,” she said, “As light as a thistledown.”

  I looked at her thoughtfully, “Apart from that,” I said, “How do you feel?”

  “Oh, all right,” her eyes clouded, “you were awfully drunk last night. I’m still a little angry with you.”

  I wasn’t sure but this seemed the new Myra again. “I wasn’t so bad,” I said, “tell me, what happened? You know what I mean.”

  She went over and sat on the bed, “I’m scared,” she said, “I dreamed things again. I dreamed that someone came into this room and got into my body. Then you woke me up. Weren’t some clothes on that chair when you came in, or did I dream it?”

  “There were,” I said, looking at her uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because they’re not here now,” she returned, “Oh, Ross, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sure now that Doc Ansell was right. There were two of them. It seemed incredible, but everything pointed to it. “You’re not to worry. Look, I’ve got to go out. Maybe we might lunch together.”

  Her face brightened. “Lovely,” she said, “what time and where?”

  I looked at the clock. It was already late. “Meet me at Manerta’s in a couple of hours and we’ll talk.”

  “All right,” she said. “But, do you think it’ll do any good?”

  “I don’t know, but there are things I want to discuss with you.” I turned to the door, “Don’t worry, and leave Whisky home, will you? I want you to myself.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said, “but, he won’t be pleased.”

  “And I couldn’t care less,” I said and left her.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  THE doorman at the entrance of the Recorder Offices seemed embarrassed when he saw me.

  “Hullo there, Murphy,” I said wondering what was biting him. “It’s good to see your ugly mug again. How’s tricks? I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I guess that’s right,” he said, shuffling his feet like he was standing on a boiler plate of an overworked tug-boat, “you wouldn’t be coming in here, would you, Mr. Millan?”

  “Yep,” I said cheerfully. “That’s the idea. I’m one of those big-minded guys. I’m not afraid of catching anything in this joint although it ought to have been fumigated years ago.”

  He laughed like a very sad man, “Well, Mr. Millan,” he said, “you know how it is,” and he shuffled his feet some more.

  It occurred to me suddenly that he wasn’t going to let me in. “What’s cookin’, Murphy?” I said sharply, “has someone died in there or something?”

  “Well, no, Mr. Millan, but Mr. Maddox has given instructions that he don’t want you in the office. We all feel pretty sore about it, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Maddox!” I said. “Well, how do you like that?” I pushed my hat to the back of my head and looked at Murphy more in anger than in sorrow. “Well, don’t let it get you down. You’re only doing your job. Look, I want a word with Dowdy. Will you get hold of him and tell him to come over to Joe’s?”

  “You bet, Mr. Millan,” Murphy said, brightening up. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him right away.” I went over to Joe’s poolroom, behind the Recorder’s Office end I felt sore. I’d worked for this sheet for almost ten years and it was like my sec
ond home. It was like being one of the orphans in the storm.

  McCue of the Telegram was the only guy in Joe’s. He was sitting at the bar on a high stool thumbing through a telephone book when I blew in.

  Both he and the barman stared at me as if I was something out of a zoo.

  “Hey, Mac,” I said with a grin, “isn’t it your bed-time?”

  He screwed up his big rubbery face and then offered a limp hand, “Ross Millan,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it, “I thought you’d committed hara-kiri in the desert.”

  “Mornin’ Willy,” I said to the barman, “how about a coffee?”

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Millan,” he said, going over to the urn, “we miss guys like you.”

  “Only because we pay our way,” I said, pulling up a stool and sitting down. “These desk newshounds want everything on the cuff.”

  McCue took out a dollar and laid it on the counter, “Willy,” he said, “I’m paying for that coffee. I consider it an honour to pay for anything that’ll sustain the guy who cost Maddox twenty-five grand.”

  I grinned, but I wasn’t feeling so good. “Quit ribbing me,” I said, “and hang on to that dollar. You know it’s the first piece of money you ever earned.”

  McCue put the dollar back into his pocket, “I was forgetting,” he said. “Anyway, it’s as good as a tenement fire to see you again. I hear you’re out.”

  “The Recorder’s washed me out, if that’s what you mean,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “But, I’ve got a great future ahead of me.”

  “That’s what the guy said when they stuck him on the hot seat. But, then he was only foolin’,” McCue said dryly. “What kind of a corny stunt was that you and Maddox thought up?”

  “Never mind,” I said, stirring my coffee. “Let the dead rest in peace. What’s cookin’ now?” McCue returned to the telephone book, “We’ve got a new lead on the Wilson killing,” he said. “I’ve gotta phone a dame.” He found the number and pulled the battered telephone that stood on the bar towards him. It had no mouthpiece and the cord was frayed and knotted.

  “When did you get back from Mexico?”

  “A few days ago,” I said, watching him dial. “You want to try Mexico sometime. It’s a swell place.”