“But what did we see then?”
“We saw light,” said Hanley. “Light that could be anything we wanted it to be. In this instance, I will admit, it was a dead ringer for a white cocker. I don’t know but what you could call it a ghost at that. It led us to the right panel.”
“But what caused it?”
“Three things,” said Hanley. “Defective glass, an automobile, and a mirror. Neat, eh? But while you people watched the ghost, I watched to see what made it. The car that came by had high lights on. Those high lights caught a whorl in the living room window on the right side, and focused a blob of light into the hall mirror which — in turn — shot the light up the stairs. As the car moved past the light came down the stairs and when it had reached a ninety-degree angle with the window, the ghost vanished.
“However, your photoflash was a bright light. It deleted the lesser light which made the ghost and thus you had no picture at all of the ghost. Light versus light. The flash won. If you could have made a time exposure, you’d have had a picture. You still can make a shot if you want. I’ll drive the prowl car up and park it just right for the ghost to be on the landing. Then you can make a time—”
“Skip it,” I said.
“Sure,” said Poppa Hanley quietly, “I know how you feel, Daffy. Lights or no lights, that cocker was the only ghost I ever saw in whom I’d like to believe. After all. it was as though he were trying to break through and let us know about his mistress. It was as though — having been unsuccessful in keeping her alive — he was doing his best to see her buried. And it worked.” He turned to Nurbeck: “I’m sending the squad up along with the medical examiner, Mr. Nurdeck. The house’ll be cleared shortly and you can go home.”
“No,” said Nurbeck. “No. I’ll never live in the place again. It murdered her. I’ve had an offer. I’m selling it to be razed. The man who owned it before me was mad, they said. Killed himself. Some sort of wealthy musician who felt he was being persecuted. Of course he had the room built where he could play the organ in solitude. But who would have thought—”
Hanley’s office was very still and very sad.
“Let’s go home,” Dinah said, sniffling slightly.
And we went...
From Ten To Three
by Edgar Franklin
Johnny Dolan and “Rosy Cheeks” tumbled to the bottom of the stairs, and somehow hit one of them large iron suits of armor.
“Positively, John,” Mr. James (Red) Binney said very earnestly, addressing that dumbest and utterest of all crime’s utterly dumb failures, pug-nosed young Johnny Dolan, across the bar of his fearful little cellar saloon, “this last coupla days since you been stringin’ wit’ Sniffy O’Toole you are gettin’ as nutty as himself. What I mean, the slug has so many bats in his dome you can hear them squeak wit’ the radio goin’ in the room. What I mean, any party which keeps sayin’ ‘Psst!’ an’ actin’ like somethin’ in a detectatif story is that sour in the noggin you can catch the smell o’ vinegar if he stands wit’in ten feet o’ yuh!”
“Yeah?” Johnny Dolan smiled.
“Absolutely! So lissen, John. A punk like you, which has not the brains of a cockroach to start wit’, cannot afford to get them put any further on the fritz, so here is what you do: take a nice little drink on the house o’ this new Seven-X, which is absolutely pure rye, an’ then beat it as fast as possible; an’ if O’Toole comes lookin’ for you I will say you was called out o’ town on account of your grandmother suddenly died.”
Mr. James (Red) Binney was certainly very upset over his pal.
Johnny Dolan tossed off a scant tumblerful of the Seven-X, rocked back on his heels for a moment, dashed away the water which had spurted from his eyes, and smiled again, just as mysteriously.
“Thanks, Red,” he said, “but I will nevertheless wait for Sniffy, on account of it cannot be helped. What I mean, you would probably not understand, but this job I been discussin’ wit’ Sniffy can easy be somethin’ which was all set up maybe fifty thousand years ago, or maybe even a million years ago!”
“What is this?” Mr. Binney grunted.
“Positively, Red! You would get the angle if you knew about storology. What I mean, if you knew about storology you would see why Sniffy cannot help gettin’ here no more’n I can help bein’ here, see, on account of that is how it was all doped out by the stars, even before George Washington was born.”
“Yeah — sure. Why not?” Mr. Binney muttered.
“Well, look, Red,” Johnny Dolan smiled patiently. “I dunno if I can explain it so a dumb cluck like you can get it, but lately I am very much interested in storology. What I mean, Pinhead McGovern is sellin’ around a book about storology for one buck, so I finally give him thirty cents for one, on account of he practically guaranteed it would make me rich. Well, it is all about stars, see? Take for instance, you would probably not know what stars you was born under, but—”
“One second!” Mr. Binney broke in with some heat. “It so happened my old man was workin’ steady longshore at the time an’ the rent was consequently paid, so I was positively not born under no stars. I was born on the fourt’ floor front o’ the same house on Tenth Avenyer near Thirty-eighth street, where we lived till I was near nine years old.”
“Y’ got it all wrong, Red,” Johnny Dolan sighed, “on account of it ain’t that kind of stars in storology. Look, takin’ it another way. In this book it says how there is, like, all different signs, see, which you could get born under. Well, supposin’ a person would get born under this, now, Scorpions, say, he would naturally have to do thus an’ so, on account of he couldn’t help doin’ it no other way, could he? Okay! Now, supposin’ you was born under Cancer—”
“Hold that, Dolan!” Mr. Binney barked. “An’ if you don’t wanna get that ugly puss slapped through the back o’ your coco, you can lay offen any more o’ them cracks at my family! See? There was never no healthier people lived in Hell’s Kitchen than my old man an’ my old lady!”
“Well — it seems you still got it wrong,” Johnny Dolan muttered, and scratched his head. “Well, look, Red, puttin’ it yet another way. Maybe half o’ this book is all about days, see? What I mean, good days an’ bad days for certain persons which is born in different signs; an’ this part is absolutely on the level, on account I know certain parties which played them good days an’ bad days an’ picked a winner every time. Take for instance Moey the Mutt, which also has this book. It seems he is gonna open a certain clothin’ store on a Monday night, an’ he looks in the book to make sure it is okey doke, an’ the book says he should hop to it, on account of this night he will prosper an’ all obstacles will be removed. So Moey opens this clothin’ store an’ what does he find? The watchman has a’ready dropped dead o’ heart disease some hours ago!”
“Aha?” Mr. Binney mumbled.
“An’ also Gimpy Smith, which also has this book an’ is gonna cool a certain lad wit’ a payroll — only the book says he will do much better stayin’ home this day, an’ he finally stays an’ so what? So he is settin’ on the front steps, wonderin’ is he goofy or otherwise, to be neglectin’ business like this, an’ the lad wit’ the payroll comes by, soused to the gills, an’ goes to sleep on the sidewalk in front o’ Gimpy, so it is not even necessary to bust his skull.”
“Lissen, John!” Mr. Binney began gently.
“Wait! This is the ninth o’ this month, ain’t it?”
“So I heard,” Mr. Binney sighed.
“An’ Sniffy O’Toole has yellow hair, ain’t he?”
“The same as some floosie that’d be doin’ a strip-tease, but John—”