There was a gasp and a chopped-off squawk from the source of the blood drops. Nicholls clapped his hands sharply, then turned to young Harley.
Take that cord you have in your hands and stretch it around the house,' he said. 'All the way around, and make sure it goes right across the middle of the doors and windows. It isn't much, but it'll hold him till we can get the good stuff set up.'
Harley nodded, then pointed a rigid finger at the drops of blood, now sizzling and fuming more angrily than before. 'What about that?' he managed to get out.
Nicholls grinned complacently. 'I'll hold him here till the cows come home,' he said, 'Get moving!'
Harley inadvertently inhaled a lungful of noxious white smoke and coughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. When he recovered he looked at Nicholls, who was reading silently from a green leather book with dog-eared pages. He said, 'Can I stop stirring this now?'
Nicholls grimaced angrily and shook his head without looking at him. He went on reading, his lips contorting over syllables that were not in any language Harley had ever heard, then snapped the book shut and wiped his brow.
'Fine,' he said. 'So far, so good.' He stepped over to windward of the boiling pot Harley was stirring on the hob over the fireplace, peered down into it cautiously.
That's about done,' he said. 'Take it off the fire and let it cool a bit.'
Harley lifted it down, then squeezed his aching biceps with his left hand. The stuff was the consistency of sickly green fudge.
'Now what?' he asked.
Nicholls didn't answer. He looked up in mild surprise at the sudden squawk of triumph from outside, followed by the howling of a chill wind.
'Hank must be loose,' he said casually. 'He can't do us any harm, I think, but we'd better get a move on.' He rummaged in the dwindled pile of junk he'd brought from the car, extracted a paintbrush. 'Smear this stuff around all the windows and doors. All but the front door. For that I have something else.' He pointed to what seemed to be the front axle of an old Model-T. 'Leave that on the doorsill. Cold iron. You can just step over it, but Hank won't be able to pass it. It's been properly treated already with the very best thaumaturgy.'
'Step over it,' Harley repeated. 'What would I want to step over it for? He's out there.'
'He won't hurt you,' said Nicholls. 'You will carry an amulet with you - that one, there - that will keep him away. Probably he couldn't really hurt you anyhow, being a low-order ghost who can't materialize to any great density. But just to take no chances, carry the amulet and don't stay out too long. It won't hold him off forever, not for more than half an hour. If you ever have to go out and stay for any length of time, tie that bundle of herbs around your neck.' Nicholls smiled. 'That's only for emergencies, though. It works on the asafoe-tida principle. Ghosts can't come anywhere near it - but you won't like it much yourself. It has - ah - a rather definite odor.'
He leaned gingerly over the pot again, sniffing. He sneezed.
'Well, that's cool enough,' he said. 'Before it hardens, get moving. Start spreading the stuff upstairs - and make sure you don't miss any windows.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I,' said Nicholls sharply, 'will be here. Start.'
But he wasn't. When Harley finished his disagreeable task and came down, he called Nicholls' name, but the man was gone. Harley stepped to the door and looked out; the car was gone, too.
He shrugged. 'Oh, well,' he said, and began taking the dust-cloths off the furniture.
Somewhere within the cold, legal mind of Lawyer Turnbull, he weighed the comparative likeness of nightmare and insanity.
He stared at the plush chair facing him, noted with distinct uneasiness how the strangely weightless, strangely sourceless trickle of redness disappeared as it hit the floor, but left long, mud-ochre streaks matted on the upholstery. The sound was unpleasant, too; Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS -
The voice continued impatiently, 'Damn your human stupidity! I may be a ghost, but heaven knows I'm not trying to haunt you. Friend, you're not that important to me. Get this -I'm here on business.'
Turnbull learned that you cannot wet dry lips with a dehydrated tongue. 'Legal business?'
'Sure. The fact that I was once killed by violence, and have to continue my existence on the astral plane, doesn't mean I've lost my legal rights. Does it?'
The lawyer shook his head in bafflement. He said, This would be easier on me if you weren't invisible. Can't you do something about it?'
There was a short pause. 'Well, I could materialize for a minute,' the voice said. 'It's hard work - damn hard, for me. There are a lot of us astral entities that can do it easy as falling out of bed, but - Well, if I have to I shall try to do it once.'
There was a shimmering in the air above the armchair, and a milky, thin smoke condensed into an intangible seated figure. Turnbull took no delight in noting that, through the figure, the outlines of the chair were still hazily visible. The figure thickened. Just as the features took form - just as Turnbull's bulging eyes made out a prominent hooked nose and a crisp beard - it thinned and exploded with a soft pop.
The voice said weakly, 'I didn't think I was that bad. I'm way out of practice. I guess that's the first daylight materialization I've made in seventy-five years.'
The lawyer adjusted his rimless glasses and coughed. Hell's binges, he thought, the worst thing about this is that I'm believing it!
'Oh, well,' he said aloud. Then he hurried on before the visitor could take offense: 'Just what did you want? I'm just a small-town laywer, you know. My business is fairly routine -'
'I know all about your business,' the voice said. 'You can handle my case - it's a land affair. I want to sue Russell Har-ley.'
'Harley?' Turnbull fingered his cheeks. 'Any relation to Zeb Harley?'
'His nephew - and his heir, too.'
Turnbull nodded. 'Yes, I remember now. My wife's folks live in Rebel Butte, and I've been there. Quite a coincidence you should come to me -'
The voice laughed. 'It was no coincidence,' it said softly.
'Oh.' Turnbull was silent for a second. Then, 'I see,' he said. He cast a shrewd glance at the chair. 'Lawsuits cost money, Mr. - I don't think you mentioned your name?'
'Hank Jenkins,' the voice prompted. 'I know that. Would -let's see. Would six hundred and fifty dollars be sufficient?'
Turnbull swallowed. 'I think so,' he said in a relatively unemotional tone - relative to what he was thinking.
'Then suppose we call that your retainer. I happen to have cached a considerable sum in gold when I was - that is to say, before I became an astral entity. I'm quite certain it hasn't been disturbed. You will have to call it treasure trove, I guess, and give half of it to the state, but there's thirteen hundred dollars altogether.'
Turnbull nodded judiciously. 'Assuming we can locate your trove,' he said, 'I think that would be quite satisfactory.' He leaned back in his chair and looked legal. His aplomb had returned.
And half an hour later he said slowly, 'I'll take your case.'
Judge Lawrence Gimbel had always liked his job before. But his thirteen honorable years on the bench lost their flavor for him as he grimaced wearily and reached for his gavel. This case was far too confusing for his taste.
The clerk made his speech, and the packed courtroom sat down en masse. Gimbel held a hand briefly to his eyes before he spoke.
'Is the counsel for the plaintiff ready?'
'I am, your honor.' Turnbull, alone at his table, rose and bowed.
The counsel for the defendant?'
'Ready, your honor!' Fred Wilson snapped. He looked with a hard flicker of interest at Turnbull and his solitary table, then leaned over and whispered in Russell Harley's ear. The youth nodded glumly, then shrugged.