The Carnelian Cube

Fifteen:

Dunninger's car slid along a street of mansions that had passed their first flush of magnificence, but were still above the level of the merely respectable, and came to a halt. The street-lights had come on; Finch noticed that although there seemed to be a good many passers-by on the opposite side, the one where they descended held but one, and that one decorated from head to foot in a sheet, like a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

An interesting specialized form of sandwich-man he thought as he noticed the electrically-lighted sign above the fan-light—J. DUNNINGER (PSEUD.)—but this was evidently wrong, for as the two men went up the walk, the sheeted figure set up an earpiercing shriek that ended in a cry of "Unfair, unfaaa-ir, un-faa-aa-ir" and died away on-a note like the sobbing of a mortally injured child. It made Finch's flesh crawl, and the medium's face held a line of annoyance.

"I hope you will pardon this—this unwarranted effort to terrify," he said, as he unlocked the door. "You need not worry as long as you live in Memphis; they wilj hardly follow you there, and if they did, Claude could handle the matter for you."

"What is it—labor trouble?" Finch found himself merely amused.

The medium sighed. "I'm afraid so. It's a rather complex business, but the gist of it is that they are trying to force me to hire an assistant who can give them materializations in a strength sufficient for them to carry on pre-mortuary experiences. I quite properly refused."

Finch called that Calioster had described this medium's rapports as "especially among the cue-criminal classes" and smiled, but Dunninger was too busy to notice. He flung himself in an easy chair, produced a pair of spectacles with a black ribbon, set them astride his nose, promptly closed his eyes, and pressing his fingers together said: "And now what is your problem, Mr. Finch?"

"I'm not sure you can do anything about it if you have no spooks at your disposal."

The eyes popped open, looking big and owlish behind their magnifying lenses. "Oh, don't say that, my dear sir. That is not at all a proper empirical attitude for a man with a true scientific mind. J. Dunninger, pseud., is never without resources."

Finch said: "Very well. A certain Theodore Harriman,—"

"Editor of the Memphis Nonpareil, believe him to be a pre-incarnation."

"No doubt. He has an object, or I think he has, which I am particularly anxious—"

"One moment. Does this involve illegal procedure? De facto, that is not de jure?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand the distinction. According to my knowledge of Latin, de jure means 'by law', and the law establishes the fact of illegality."

"Not at all. Surely, my dear client, you can see that the reverse is the case in any enlightened civilization. When a majority of the ruling citizens of a community desire a thing, that fact establishes it as legal, and the lawyers then make written records for the benefit of their own profession. I must make a note of your statement as an interesting survival of ancient rationalist thinking." He produced an enormous leather-bound notebook and did so. "I take it your problem concerns the city of Memphis?"

"Yes."

"Then I suggest that you do not talk about it or even think about it, as I have an unusual degree of ESP, and would be forced to inform the governors of the Rotary-Club of tins city, who are particularly anxious to placate Colonel Lee of the Pegasus Literary Society at present. But the problem entails search and seizure, does it not?"

"Precisely," said Finch, trying to switch his mind from the subject of Sonia's figure, which kept popping into his thoughts involuntarily.

An expression that might have been either pleasure or amusement floated across Dunninger's face, but he did not open his eyes again. "Then I think I had better send Roddy back to Memphis with you. You can make the necessary arrangements with him. As he has an extremely bad memory he will have forgotten any details that might place me in an embarrassing position on his return, and I can charge you on a straight time basis by noting the date of his reappearance."

"Who in the world is Roddy? A ghost?"

Dunninger's eyes opened and he took off the glasses. "No. I shall hardly have the services of the normal members of that plane for at least three weeks to come. Roddy is a well developed specimen of Rhodelephas mutabilis, variety frumenti, the variable alcoholic hallucination. After I detached him from a client, I added him to my organization, and we have found the arrangement mutually—interesting."

"Do you mean this hallucination grew out of your client on a kind of stalk?"

Dunninger smiled. "Not at all; the bond was purely psychic. For that matter Rhodelephas is normally imperceptible to all but the sufferer and a very few gifted mediums like myself. That is why Roddy would be so particularly useful in the solution of your problem."

"Do you have to materialize him?"

"My dear sir, of course not. Materialization is a phenomenon affecting only beings from another plane. Roddy is in our own, as a matter of fact, sitting in the chair to your left at this moment. I'll give you a dose of aleuinaria so you can communicate with him."

Finch experienced a slight sense of shock. "And what is aleuinaria?"

With the patience of a great engineer forced to show a half-witted laborer how to drive a nail with a hammer, Dunninger explained: "Aleuinaria is a drug which enables you to perceive phantoms of Roddy's type without having to drink yourself into delirium. It has no harmful effects, and all results from the dosage will wear off in a few months."

The medium rose, unlocked a wall cabinet, and produced a bottle with a little glass in the form of a miniature brandy-inhaler. "I should warn you that Roddy is not the only Rhodelephas you will see, and as some of them may belong to the species giganteus or loricata, the effect may prove disturbing ... Ah, good! I perceive you do not intend to be intimidated by such obstacles. Here you are."

The drink was sweet, with a flavor of apricot liqueur, and burned his tongue. He gagged slightly, blinked, and looked up to see that there was indeed a figure in the chair Dunninger had indicated.

"Uk," said Arthur Cleveland Finch. He had been prepared for almost anything—except finding Roddy in the form of his old Maecenas, Leo Pushman, the movie magnate.

Yet it was not quite the authentic Pushman. The features were right, the apparition was clad in one of Push-man's neatly pressed business suits, but face, clothes and all, was a uniform bright orange with thickly-sown black polka-dots, and when Roddy lifted a hand, Finch perceived that it was not a suit he wore, but some kind of integument that imitated one, visible as such where it flowed smoothly into hands at the wrists.

Moreover, Finch was reminded that one reason why he had always taken a pessimistic view of the character of Leo Pushman, a reason of which he was slightly ashamed, since it had nothing really to do with character, was that Pushman suffered from the malady even your best friends won't tell you about. Roddy outran Push-man by a wide margin in this respect; in fact, he smelled like an old goat, and to a great distance.

"Mr. Finch, Roddy," said Dunninger, politely. "I am attaching you to him."

"So nice," said Roddy in Leo Pushman's voice, and came*over to pump Finch's hand with energy. The smell was one Finch" would never forget, but he managed a smile. The polka-dots began to fade, and Roddy was turning a delicate chocolate without altering form. "Are you the poet? I was attached to an artist once, but I like poets better. When are we going to leave?"

Finch tugged an ear-lobe. "I suppose I ought to go back and say goodbye to Kretschmeyer, but from what I last saw at that literary tea, I don't imagine Midwestern literature will miss me till the Cobra Milk runs out. We could start right away."

Roddy said: "A literary tea? With real authors? Oh, let's go there for a few minutes. Besides, the aroma of Cobra Milk cocktails strengthens me; I can work ever so much better for you."

"No," said Finch firmly.

Roddy started to pout, but the lips kept right on bulging outward, the nose followed them, his ears enlarged and his head changed its whole shape. The hands shortened and thickened, going down to the floor, and in one minute flat Roddy had become a parlor version of the emblem of the Republican Party. As Finch watched, a flush of dazzling pink swept over the figure and the smell became one of hay.

"Do as you're told," said Dunninger (pseud.) sternly. "You have been assigned to this gentleman until he releases you." He turned to Finch. "You are travelling by boat? Very sensible; one never knows where a temperamental engineer will take one on a train these days. I'll have my car set you down at the dock."

Roddy sulkily returned to human form, waves of green that swept through his coloring expressing his feelings. He followed Finch out docilely enough. Just at the doorway something loglike lay in the path and Finch stumbled against the wall trying to avoid it. In the light as the door opened the impediment was revealed as a large blue alligator, which raised itself on four stumpy legs and hissed truculently.

" 'Lo, Panzer," remarked Roddy.

The alligator's snout became a singularly ill-conditioned human face. "Hullo," it grunted. "Why don't your suckers learn to watch their step?"

Finch remembered Dunninger's warning about seeing extra phantoms, but he was hardly prepared to have the ghostly picket outside the front door burst forth at Roddy with "Yaah, you stinking rum-pot!" Or for that matter, for the pterodactyl-like creature with the subhuman face and a prognathous jaw full of teeth that swooped from a rooftop toward the picket and chased it some distance up the block.

In the car Finch became aware that Roddy's smell had changed to the sour odor of a reptile house. Sure enough, he was changing into something like a monstrous snake, with long arms that ended in fingers like the tails of snakes.

"This is my favorite form," he said, wrapping his tail affectionately around Finch's knees. "Listen, maybe you and I could get together. I get the most wonderful ideas for books sometimes, but just can't seem to write them down. How would it be if I sort of gave you the ideas and you could maybe put them into the literary form, if you know what I mean?"

Finch was unhappily afraid he did know, but he said:

'Tm a poet. What you want for thats job is a novelist."

"I suppose so. Do you know Liam Tattingrodt, the novelist? I'm simply wild about his novels; I wish the boss would give me a job to do for him. The St. Louis Star said his last book marked a new era in social consciousness... ."

At the hotel Finch packed his bag in gloomy silence. He was beginning to repent of his bargain, for Roddy, now in the human form of a peculiarly obnoxious freshman from one of Finch's classes, continued to express the most effusive admiration of the literary life, varying this with appeals to be told just how a poem was written—which came first, the rhyme or the idea.

By time he had reached the boat, Finch was happy to make the bar his first point of call. But wine proved to be a mocker. There was another man with his foot already on the brass rail, a heavy-set man with what looked to be at least a double Scotch in front of him. He alternately took sips from it and cast suspicious glances., over one shoulder, and Finch, following the direction of his eye, saw a large blue octopus in one of the chairs.

"Hi, Squilch," said Roddy.

"Hi, yourself," observed the octopus, waving a blue tentacle.

"Guess who I'm working for," said Roddy, proudly. "Arthur Finch; he's a real poet."

"Gee," said the octopus, fixing Finch with his unwinking stare. "Could I meet him?"

"Sure. Mr. Finch, will you shake hands with a friend of mine, just once. Boy, oh, boy, working for you is sure going to make me. We're all of us nuts about poets and writers and people like that."

Finch obligingly sat down at the table and accepted the pressure of a cold blue object which flushed to purple at the contact, whereupon the octopus slid to the floor and squatted there, looking up with passionate adoration in its lidless eyes. The heavy-set man glanced once, then turned, had a long look, and ordered another triple Scotch.

So did Finch.