But the fellow-cavalier talked enough for two. Nash picked up the facts that his self-appointed pal was the Comte de la Tour d'Ivoire; that both of them were living in a sort of cavaliers' club; that he, de Nêche, had formerly held a job that caused him to travel between New York City and an unspecified kingdom whereof he and the Comte were subjects, but that de Nêche was now unemployed. Moreover he got the impression that there were persons in astral New York who would like nothing better than to carve their initials on his liver.
Behind their backs, a roll of distant gunfire broke out, fading as they trotted south. They rode until Nash guessed that they had reached the Twenties, though the irregular layout of astral New York made Nash's knowledge of its mundane equivalent of very limited use. They halted in front of an elderly brownstone building with big glass doors. A vacuuous-looking fellow took their horses; Nash wondered who would create such a stupid oaf for his astral body. Then he remembered hearing about "soulless ones"; perhaps this was one of them.
"Ah! M'sieur le Chevalier!" cried the doorman, and there was a stampede of long-haired sword-girt persons across the lobby to pump Nash's hands and kiss his cheeks. They all yelled questions at him in French, until de la Tour d'lvoire proved himself a real friend by shouting: "Plus tard, je vous en prie! Les privations horribles il asoutenu!"
Nash located the dining room and made straight for it. After wolfing his way through a huge breakfast he was presented with a check. He was not quite sure what to do about this, but the waiter had a pencil in his hand, and did not seem disturbed when Nash took it away from him and signed de Nêche's name to the check. They'd have a hell of a time proving that it was a forgery.
At the desk they gave him his key and a couple of letters. They also gave him a meaningful cough, and one of them said: "About your bill, m'sieur—"
"Later, please." As he turned away, Nash saw the clerk toss a slight shrug and an uplift of the eyebrow at the other, as if he had heard that sort of thing only too often.
The mirror in his room showed Nash a very seedy-looking chevalier indeed, unshaven and bloodshot. His drink out of the lake the previous night had dissolved all the wax out of the spikes of his mustache, so that they hung down the sides of his mouth like unraveled ends of tarred string.
He hunted up the chevalier's toilet articles, which included a homicidal-looking straight razor, and freshened his appearance. He considered trimming the mustache down to the dimensions to which his mundane self was accustomed, but decided that it would be a dirty trick to take such a liberty with the body of the chevalier in the latter's absence. There was a small jar of pomade for rewaxing the ornament.
Then he went through his possessions. These included a notebook, a carpetbag, spare clothes, a bill of sale for a bay stallion, and a pawn ticket for a watch.
The pile of correspondence on the table consisted mainly of unpaid bills, some accompanied by nasty little notes. When he dutifully entered all his known debts on the sheet of note paper he was using as a ledger, he was horrified to find himself four hundred sixty-nine dollars and nine cents in the hole. Gosh, if he'd known anything like this was going to happen, he would have created an astral body with some sense about financial matters!
On the other hand, if he could only get hold of the damned Shamir, he could leave the prodigal chevalier to his own dubious monetary destiny.
One letter was personal. In French, it read:
Three Rivers,
October 24th.
My dear Jean-Prospère:
Just a word to inform you that since you recently departed with such magnificent élan, the peace of a tomb has prevailed in the kingdom. Me, I wish you would return. But I cannot, I regret, seriously advise such a course, because his majesty has issued orders that should his officers apprehend you attempting such a gaff, they shall hang you at once.
To me such a sad event would give a sorrow of the most formidable. Very well, my old, remain where you are, and try not to make that spot too hot for you also. We know that you never write letters, but we shall think of you, nevertheless.
Marie, Constance, and Helene weep to hot tears for you. Celestin swears that she will cut your heart out should opportunity present itself.
With my most affectionate sentiments,
Raoul.
Wow! thought Nash. There remained the two unopened letters he had gotten from the desk. Both were in English; the first read:
Tamerlane Express Co.,
214 Canal Street, New York City,
October 30th.
M. le Chevalier de Nêche,
Alexandre Dumas Club,
New York City.
Dear Sir:
We regret to inform you that we do not at present have an opening for you in our organization as courier.
However, in view of your admirable qualifications, we shall keep your name on file and shall inform you whenever such a position becomes available.
Very truly yours,
Kit Fargo Simpson, Pres.
The other was more personaclass="underline"
12 Rutherford Place,
New York City,
October 30th.
Dear Chevalier:
I've just heard that you are staying in New York City again.
I'm giving a small party Saturday night. Remembering how you were the life of my last one, I'd love it if you could manage to drop in this time. Any time after eight. Cordially,
Alicia Dido Woodson.
Nash stared at the signature a long time. That must be the astral body of his reserved friend Alice Woodson! Was there some metaphysical affinity between the astral bodies of people who were friends on the mundane plane, that he should keep bumping into the astral equivalents of his acquaintances? Very likely.
Saturday night. Hm-m-m. That was last night, which Nash had spent frozenly rowing about Tukiphat's sphere of refraction. Probably he had gone out early Saturday and so had not received this letter when it arrived, and had not been home since. The thought of the girl's disappointment brought a slight lump to Nash's throat. The least he could do would be to call at once and explain. Also, he admitted, he was itching with curiosity to see what sort of astral body Alice would have.
Not to mention the possibility that she might know someone who had a job open, or who could give him a line on how to secure the Shamir.
To avoid another refrigeration he put on the cloak he found hanging in the closet. In half an hour he had ridden up to 12 Rutherford Place.
This turned out to be a small walk-up apartment house. A. D. Woodson was announced over the letter box of Apartment 2-C.
No answer to the bell. Maybe this Woodson girl worked for a living, instead of serving as an abused nurse to a cantankerous mother. Apparently people did not have parents on the astral plane; they just flickered into existence when somebody on the mundane plane conceived the idea of them, and then they kept going until an accident took them off.
Or perhaps—not likely, but possible—the bell did not work. Nash did not think much of the standard of technics in this world. Which was only to be expected, if people insisted on conceiving cavaliers and cowboys instead of plumbers, carpenters and electricians. He pushed another bell at random, and when the buzzer sounded opened the front door.