Clayton Rawson
Footprints on the Ceiling
FOR HUGH AND THE FISH
Chapter One:
THE GIRL AND THE GUN
My first reaction was cynical — an ad like that must be a publicity stunt; it was far too good to be true. I turned to the theatrical section and began reading. But it was no go; the haunted house won out. I turned back and read the ad again:
WANTED TO RENT: Haunted House, preferably in rundown condition. Must be adequately supplied with interesting ghost. Write details, location, history, price. K492 World-Telegram.
There just might be a story in it. So I phoned a friend on the Telegram city desk.
“Could you use a drink after work, Ted?” I asked. “It’s on me.”
“Sounds fair enough, Ross. My trick’s over at eleven. See you at Joe’s. And now go away; I’m busy. There’s a four-alarm fire, a love nest, and two wars.”
But quickly before he could hang up, I said, “In the meantime ask your Classified Department who Box K492 is.”
He took time out to think it over. Then he said slowly, “Uh-huh. I get it. Bribery. Just for that I’ve a good notion not to tell you. You mean the haunted house with the hot and cold running ghosts, don’t you?”
“Oh.” Disappointment sneaked up on me from behind. “You’re on to it then?”
“Well, we don’t sleep all the time; this is a newspaper office. I thought about putting a man on it, but when I found out who’d inserted it I didn’t bother. Looks like publicity. Though, if you’re interested, maybe—”
“What do you mean, ‘if I’m interested, maybe—’?”
“Well, you should know. K492 is a friend of yours. The Great Merlini.”
I quickly brought the shock absorbers into play; then, flatly as possible, answered, “Too bad. I thought if it was on the up-and-up it might be interesting. See you at eleven.”
But I knew if Merlini was advertising for a haunted house, it wasn’t a gag and it would be interesting. Ted, however, didn’t give my acting a passing mark. A half hour later the reporter he had sent was leaving Merlini’s shop just as I arrived.
The lettering on the frosted glass panel of the door read: THE MAGIC SHOP — Miracles for Sale — A. Merlini, Prop. The Great Merlini can supply you with “hosts of ghosts” of any desired description and to fit any occasion. The only cabalistic ritual necessary consists in crossing his palm with the specified catalogue price, which covers the cost of luminous paint, cheesecloth, mailing, overhead, and allows for a fair margin of profit.
Merlini is the black sheep of the famous family of Riding Merlinis, ace circus equestrians for five generations. Spending all his practice time as a boy in the company of the sideshow magician, he dealt a nearly mortal blow to the family pride when he failed to master the back somersault from horse to horse. From the first the acrobatics that fascinated him were the subtler nimble-fingered ones of sleight-of-hand.
A year or two ago, after a farewell world tour, he retired from active professional magic and, using his inventive ability to contrive new and ever more practical means for shattering all the immutable laws of physics, he devoted himself to supplying magicians with miracles to order. If you desired to levitate a lady in mid-air, pierce her through and through with swords, bisect her visibly with a buzz saw, stretch her to twice her length, burn her alive, or make her instantly vanish, all without harm, he would quote you prices, either for blueprints or for the finished apparatus in tested working order. His own personal methods for producing bowls of goldfish from thin air, baking cakes in borrowed hats, walking through brick walls, causing mentally selected cards to rise from a deck, escaping from bolted coffins, and growing fully matured rosebushes in three minutes were used by many of the magicians for whom his shop served as a meeting place and unofficial clubroom. Entering Merlini’s shop on a day when his conjuring customers had foregathered there was like stepping into some Arabian Nights Never-Never Land where, at the slightest provocation, anything might happen — and did.
There were none of them there this afternoon — only Burt Fawkes, Merlini’s shop assistant — but things happened just the same. Merlini, I half suspect, had hired Burt partly because of the prestige of having on the premises a possible descendant of the Bartholomew’s Fair conjurer, the illustrious Isaac Fawkes. Burt is a magician in his own way, an odd little Believe-it-or-Not sort of man with a long face, a wide grin, and a remarkable body made of some special substance having about twice the elasticity of rubber. In his younger days as a carnival contortionist he was billed as TWISTO, The Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out.
He was surrounded now by all the brightly colored and oddly assorted paraphernalia of illusion. Skulls and opera hats, balls and ribbons and gaily painted boxes, silk handkerchiefs, steel rings and giant playing cards — everything a magician’s heart could desire short of a genuine wishing ring or the original Aladdin’s Lamp. The shop’s mascot, Peter Rabbit, eyed me suspiciously as I entered and then resumed his excited nibbling on a carrot.
“Where’s the boss, Burt?” I asked. “And how’s the haunted real estate business?”
Burt beamed at me. “Maybe there is something in telepathy,” he said. “I’ve been phoning you all day. Don’t you ever go home?”
“Not lately, no,” I explained. “That damned revue opens Monday. The apartment’s only five minutes walk from the theater, and they make me stay at a hotel so I’ll be handy if someone wants a blackout rewritten at four in the morning. I manage a nap now and then in two seats on the aisle, fifth row center. Ever try to sleep curled around a chair arm?”
“Nothing to it,” he said, grinning. “You’re free now?”
“No. Wish I were. I’m just out on probation. They may want a brand new second curtain before night. This is positively the last time — why did you ask that?”
“Merlini,” Burt began in a conspirational tone of voice that sounded promising, “wants you—” He stopped.
The door opened and let in an unusual customer — if that’s what she was. A magic shop’s clientele is almost exclusively male; the few customers of the other sex are mostly shifty-eyed, sometimes seedy-looking, middle-aged dames who want to see crystal-gazing balls and the latest thing in trick slates.
But this was a trim, streamlined model with an enticing blond color scheme and a figure that was tops even for Broadway. The deep blue of the eyes held a thoroughly deceptive innocence, betrayed by the alert knowing way she used them and by the faintly cynical twist of the full mouth. Gold lights glinted softly in the trickily upswept hair that was topped by a gay lunatic hat, an upside down contraption that couldn’t possibly have remained where it was but for the ribbon which descended and tied neatly beneath a small determined chin. A definite hint of nervous strain in her expression and in the quick way he moved only added to the total effect. My reaction was definitely yes.
She addressed Burt and her voice, though easy to listen to, was intent and anxious. “Is Merlini in?”
Nearly undone by this unheralded apparition, Burt blinked. “Yes—” he said, “I mean no. I’m sorry. He’s not here.”
She frowned impatiently. “I’m Miss Sigrid Verrill. I phoned earlier. When do you expect him?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been trying to get him for you. I left word one or two places, but he hasn’t called back yet.”
“But won’t he stop in again before evening? I thought he was usually here.”
“He is, but this week’s an exception. He might be back but I wouldn’t guarantee it. He didn’t say he would.”