"What sort of cat was it?" Tracy asked.
The little man looked at him oddly. "Ordinary sort of cat. Big fella. White feet, looked like. What of it?"
"Nothing." Tracy turned back to his drink and sniffed it. There was an unmistakable bitter-almonds odor. Prussic acid, the conventional poison.
Tracy left the bar, his face rather white. Three chances. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. But ten, in the beginning, had seemed an abundance.
There was no sign of Meg.
He didn't bother to go back to the Journal, though he phoned to get a report on Pan-Argyle. He was not surprised to learn that a new field had suddenly been brought in somewhere in Texas. It looked big, plenty big. He had got in just under the wire.
He phoned his broker, and the news was eminently satisfying. Buying on margin had its advantages. As a result, Tracy was already a rich man.
"It may peter out, though," the broker said. "Shall I hang on?"
"It won't peter out." Tracy's voice was confident. "Keep buying, if there's any stock left floating around."
"There isn't. But you've got almost a controlling share."
"Good." Tracy hung up and considered. He'd have to move fast now.
Three chances.
He cheered himself up by buying a car from an acquaintance who had been pressed for money lately; and presently was tooling the big sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, squinting against the sunset. The next step was to find Meg and maneuver himself into a very dangerous position, where only the familiar's destruction could save him.
Quite suddenly Tracy saw the way.
It would take two chances, but that would still leave one for emergencies. And it would get rid of Meg permanently.
He turned on La Brea and headed for Laurel Canyon. It was necessary to get in touch with the familiar. Under the circumstances, time counted. No more of the irreplaceable pages must be used up now. Not until the final test.
Tracy grinned sardonically. He had had ten chances; the result was money. Well, the aphorism about spilt milk was consoling, after a fashion. He swung into Sunset, and thence to Laurel Canyon Road.
After that he went cautiously. He was hoping that Gwinn's body had not yet been discovered, and that he could get in contact with Meg at the magician's house. It was a slim chance, but he could think of no other.
Luck was with him. The house loomed dark and silent. Letters stuck out of the metal mailbox at the curb. The rising wind caught one and fluttered it away into the twilight.
Instinctively Tracy's eyes sought the cat, but it was nowhere in evidence. He parked the sedan in the roadway behind the house, hidden by dwarf trees and underbrush. Then he went back and climbed the steps, his heart beating faster than normal.
The door was closed but unlocked. He pushed it open and entered.
The room was slightly changed. A pentagram was traced on the floor, and the remnants of several oil lamps were broken shards. Oil had soaked into the carpet, and the smell was strong in Tracy's nostrils. The body of Gwinn sat motionless behind the table.
"Meg!" Tracy said softly.
The cat came out of the shadows, green eyes gleaming.
"Yes?"
"I-I wanted to talk to you."
Meg sat down, waving her tail. "Talk away. But you have used seven pages of the book already, you know."
"Then Barney Donn and the demons counted separately."
"Yes. You have three pages left."
Tracy said, standing motionless in the twilit room, horribly conscious of Gwinn's corpse:
"Will you take a sporting chance?"
"Perhaps. What is it?"
"I'll gamble with you. My life as the stake. If I win, you-call it off. If I lose, I'll destroy the book."
Meg waved her tail. "I'm no fool. If we gamble, and you're in danger, the book will help you."
"Then I won't use it," Tracy said, his voice a little unsteady. "Here's the proposition. We'll guess at a card's suit. Two guesses each. If I lose, I-I'll destroy the book. Only I make one stipulation."
"What?"
"I want twelve hours to set my affairs in order. Twelve hours from now, if I lose, I'll throw the book in the fire at my apartment and wait for you."
Meg looked at the man inscrutably. "And you won't use the book to help you win?"
"Right."
"I agree, the cat said. You'll find cards on that shelf." It waved a white-mittened paw.
Tracy got the cards and shuffled them expertly. He spread them out on the carpet and looked at Meg. "Will you draw? Or shall I?"
"Draw," the familiar murmured. Tracy obeyed, but did not turn the card over. He laid it face down on the oil-soaked carpet.
"I choose-"
His side felt warm. Instinctively he drew out the book. On the front cover two numerals were black against the luminous white disk:
33
"Don't open it," Meg said, "or the deal's off."
For answer, Tracy placed the book at his side, unopened. His voice shaking, he whispered, "Hearts and spades."
"All right." The cat flipped the card over with a deft paw. It was the jack of clubs.
The numeral on the book's cover vanished abruptly.
Meg flicked out a lazy pink tongue. "Twelve hours, then, Tracy. I'll be waiting as patiently as possible."
"Yeah." Tracy was looking at the book on the floor beside him. "Twelve hours," he repeated softly. "Then I'll destroy-this and you'll kill me, I suppose."
"Yes," the cat said.
A new numeral appeared in the white ovaclass="underline" 9. Tracy said, "I'll be getting on," and picked up the book. He thumbed it idly.
Page 9 said, "Start a fire."
Tracy took out a cigarette and lit it. The flaming match he tossed down to the oil-soaked carpet. And-Fire blazed up, reflecting crimson and green in Meg's eyes as she bounded up, hissing. The feline side was in the ascendant now. Tail erect, back arched, she leaped to the table, spitting and snarling.
Tracy jumped back to the door. The fire was spreading. He slid the book into his pocket and tossed the cigarette into a dark corner of the room. The red spark flashed out into flame.
"Like it, Meg?" he whispered above the increasing crackle and roar. "I don't think you do. Because it's the only thing that'll save my life-and I'm pretty sure that means your death."
The cat sprang to Gwinn's shoulder, glaring at Tracy. Its hissing became articulate. "Not my death-but you've won! My term on earth ends when my warlock's body is destroyed. I won't survive him."
"I remember. You told me that once before, but I didn't guess the right answer. Sorry, Meg!"
"My powers are waning already, or you'd die now. Yes, you've won. I'll see you in Hell."
"Not for a while," Tracy grinned, opening the door. The draft drew a gust of flames toward him, and he backed off hurriedly. "I still have one page in the book left, and that'll keep me alive for a while-especially with you out of the way, and a fortune at my finger tips. It's just a matter of logic, Meg. Every human action can be boiled down to a basic equation"-he jumped back again-"and the only trick is to learn how to use the book. If Napoleon had owned it, he'd have conquered the world."
Fire was crawling toward the cat, yet she did not move from Gwinn's shoulder. She spat at Tracy. "Napoleon did own it," she snarled. Then the flames drove Tracy out of the house. Laughing quietly, he raced down the steps and around to where he had left his car. He had won-tricked both Meg and the book neatly by maneuvering himself into a position where only the familiar's death would save his own life. And there was still one page left.
A window crackled and broke. Fire poured out from it. Instantly the dry brush caught. Tracy stopped short, a dozen feet from his car. He gave back, realizing instantly that this way of escape was blocked.