“On the other hand,” I returned blithely, “it might be a pair of lawyers calling to inform me that my long lost uncle has kicked the bucket and left me his estate of a hundred thousand dollars Mex. It is a code of the Dill family never to turn down a telephone call. If you will kindly attend—” I picked up the handset and said hello.
Dinah — unhappily — was correct. It was the Old Man, that bald-headed little gnome who city edits the Chronicle — who sits behind his desk with a dark green eyeshade down over his face.
“If I am speaking with D. Dill,” he opened sardonically, “it is merely to say that his presence is required quicker than he can present himself.”
“If you will glance at the mechanism you call a clock which rests on the southwest corner of your desk,” I replied with fervor, “you will note that Eastern Standard Time says five o’clock — which same is the hour that said Daffy Dill stops working and begins to play.”
“Ha-ha!” the Old Man chortled sadly. “That was very funny. Even odd. I ask you to consider the human wreck lounging across the street by Pier Twelve. You can see him from your window. That is what unemployment does to a guy. Get in here fast or it’s your neck.”
“Listen, Rasputin—”
“I’m telling you, Daffy—”
“But I’ve got a date with Dinah for dinner and she’ll disown me if I don’t keep this one—”
“I wouldn’t give a damn if she decapitated you. I’ve got a yarn for you to cover and—”
“Okay, okay!” I snapped. “And I hope your next herring bone has a slow passage through your Adam’s apple.”
“May the levees that hold the water off your brain have weak moments,” he finished, and slammed up.
Dinah and I shrugged at one another. I got up, put on my hat and coat, and we both went over to the Old Man. He said hello brusquely. “Never mind the black looks, Dinah,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for the free dinner.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “Free for me or for Daffy?”
“Never mind that,” countered the Old Man. He turned to me. “Do you know what this is?”
“Why,” I said, ogling at the black object which he held up. “It looks like one of those things that takes pictures.”
“It’s a camera,” agreed the Old Man snappily. “It’s a speed Graphic with a Kalart Synchronizer, lens Tessar f/4.5 and a focal shutter with speeds from 1/10th to 1/1000th of a second.”
“Very interesting,” I said. “I have a Brownie snapshot camera myself which I bought in 1909. Sometimes it makes pictures. I don’t know much about it. I care even less. And I’m hungry.”
“You’re going to operate this machine tonight,” barked the Old Man. “I’ll make it as simple as possible. I’ve set the shutter at 1/50th of a second, same timing as the photoflash bulb. All you have to do is sight through this range-finder and when you see what you’re shooting clearly, press this lever and you’ll have a picture. The lens is already stopped to f/8.”
“My friend,” I replied suavely, “I am a newspaper reporter. I garner news, not pictures. If you want pictures, use a staff fotog. If you want especially good pictures, hire Candid Jones to shoot ’em. If you want no pictures, I’ll handle the camera.”
The Old Man sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. “This isn’t the time to be funny, Daffy. There’s a good yarn in this thing and if you can get anything at all with the camera, it’ll be terrific.”
“What is he supposed to shoot?” Dinah asked, curious.
“A ghost,” answered the Old Man calmly.
There was a long silence. Dinah and I stared at him. The Old Man is not superstitious and hardly a romanticist. He was as cynical an old guy as had ever been spared by the buzzards. There wasn’t an ounce of flumduggery in his skull. There wasn’t an ounce of tomfoolery in his makeup. And it was plain that he was absolutely on the level.
“A g-ghost?” Dinah faltered. “You don’t mean a real g-ghost?”
“A real ghost,” affirmed the Old Man. “Remember, Daffy? The last time we had ghosts in the Chronicle was when old Major Culpepper came back from the grave with his .31 caliber grave-scratcher. That was a phony. Maybe this is, too. I don’t know.”
“For a possible phony,” I said, “you take it pretty seriously. What is all this anyway?”
“It begins with Walter Nurbeck,” said the Old Man. “You know — the big-game hunter who brings ’em back more or less alive. I know Walt pretty well myself. After this last trip to Malaya, he delivered a cargo of animals to the Rachenbach Circus quarters out on Long Island. He was pretty much fed up with traveling around and figured he’d stay in New York for a spell until the winter was over.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now you may remember something about Walt Nurbeck. He was married to Gloria Canova back in 1921—”
“Gloria Canova, the actress?” Dinah breathed reverently.
“That’s the one,” said the Old Man.
“But she disappeared about eight years ago!” I said. “I remember all that fuss. I was a mere stripling at the time, but it had the country gaga. Nurbeck was in Africa at the time.”
“Here’s how it happened,” explained the Old Man. “Walt was in Africa with Akeley on a job for the Natural History Museum. His wife was playing in The Taming of the Shrew, a revival at the Broadhurst Theater. She came home from the theater this particular night with her agent, Karl Anderson, and her producer, Philip de Mare. They were sitting in the living room and the maid was serving them liqueurs when suddenly Miss Canova rose, said she was going to change her clothes, and went upstairs. She never returned!”
“I remember,” I said.
“I don’t want to remember,” Dinah said, shivering. “What happened to her anyhow?”
“I wish I knew,” said the Old Man wistfully. “It would make a sweet yarn... As a matter of fact, Dinah, no one knows what happened. She was never found. She went upstairs with her white cocker spaniel — the dog was faithfully devoted to her — and she was never seen again.”
“And the dog?”
“The cocker disappeared with her. Never seen either. Walt Nurbeck came home, grief-stricken — offered rewards which were never claimed. No trace of the girl was ever found. It was established that Gloria Canova could never have left by the front door because her agent, Karl Anderson, could see it from where he sat. She didn’t leave by the back door because the cook was there and would have seen her. She could have lowered herself out of a window with rope and sheets, along with the dog, and made an exit into eternity that way, but... well... where did she go? What happened to her?”
“There’s murder in it,” I said.
“Baloney,” said the Old Man. “Always a nose for sudden death. Keep this one sane. I’ll resume. Now during the time that Walt Nurbeck was on his way home from Africa, the maid and cook kept up housekeeping there in the house, waiting for him. They telephoned the police one night after the disappearance, terrified. When the cops got there, the maid was a case. She’d seen a ghost — the ghost of the cocker spaniel. She heard deathly wails — the wails of her missing mistress. And a strange satanic organ had played a ghastly tune during the whole thing. Needless to say, the cook and maid both left the premises. The police found nothing. And Walt Nurbeck arrived home to an empty house, already steeped in tragedy, and quickly acquiring a nasty reputation.”