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  “I don’t see how, I may have left it too late. I called here on Saturday to make the appointment, but—” She went red in the face. “I could just kill him.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “The last séance—they have one every Sunday and that’s just wrong having it on a Sunday—something horrible happened. They all gathered in the larger parlor at the table as usual, lighted candles, and put out the lights. Soon as it went dark I slipped in while they were getting settled. There’s an old Chinese screen in one corner, and I hide behind it during their séances. Negative feelings, my foot, no one’s noticed me yet, not even Bradford, so I saw the whole thing.”

  “Which was?”

  “He put himself in a trance right on time. It usually takes five minutes, and by then everyone’s expecting something to happen, you can feel it. He starts out with a low groan and breathing loudly, and in the dark it’s spooky, and that’s when his spirit guide takes over. His voice gets deeper and he puts on a French accent. Calls himself Frère Lèon. He’s supposed to have been a monk who traveled with Joan of Arc.”

  “Who speaks perfect English?”

  “Of course. No one’s ever thought of talking to him in French. I doubt Bradford knows much more than mon Dieu and sang sacré.”

  She’d attended a good finishing school, speaking with the right kind of pronunciation. I’d heard it when I’d been a doughboy in France during the last year of the war, and had picked up enough to get by. Much of that was too rough for Miss Saeger’s tender ears, though.

  “And the horrible thing that happened?”

  “It was at the end. He pretends to have Frère Lèon pass on messages from James. He can’t have James talk directly to Flora or he’d trip himself up. He doesn’t pass too many messages, either, just general stuff about how beautiful it is on the other side. She tries to talk to him and ask him things and she’s so desperate and afterwards she always cries and then she goes back for more. It’s cruel. But this time he said he was giving her a sign of what she should do.”

  “Do?”

  “I didn’t know what that meant, until . . . well, Bradford finished just then and pretended to be waking from his trance. That’s when they found what he’d snuck on the table. It was James’wedding ring, the one he was buried with.”

  I gave that the pause it deserved. “Not a duplicate?”

  She shook her head, a fast, jerky movement. Her voice was thick. “Inside it’s engraved with To J. from F.—Forever Love. He never took it off and it had some hard wear: two distinct parallel scratches, and it wasn’t a perfect circle. Flora showed it to me as proof that Alistair Bradford was genuine. She didn’t want to hear my idea that . . . that he’d dug up and robbed James’ grave. I thought she’d slap me. She’s gone crazy, Mr.—”

  “Fleming. Call me Jack.”

  “Jack. Flora’s never raised a hand to me, even when we were kids and I was being bratty, but this has her all turned around. I thought Mr. Escott could find something out about Bradford that would prove him a fake or come to a séance and do something to break it up, but I don’t think she’d listen now. The last thing Bradford said before his trance ended was ‘you have his blessing.’ Put that with the ring and I know it means if he asks Flora to marry him she’ll say yes because she’ll think that’s what James would want.”

  “Come on, she can’t be that—”

  “Stupid? Foolish? Under a spell? She is! That’s what’s driving me crazy. She should be smarter than this.”

  “Grief can make you go right over the edge. Guilt can make it worse, and I bet she’s lonely, too. She should have gone to a headdoctor, but picked up a Ouija board instead. Does this Bradford ask for money?”

  “He calls it a donation. She’s given him fifty dollars every time. He gets that much for all his sittings—and he does thirty to forty a month. My sister’s not the only dope in town.”

  My mouth went dry. Fifty a week was a princely income, but that much times forty? I was in the wrong business. I’d gotten twenty-five a week back in New York as a reporter and counted myself lucky. “Well. It beats robbing banks. Your sister can give him more by marriage?”

  “Yes, her trust money and the estate from James. Bradford would have it, the house, never have to work again. Please, can you help me stop him?”

  I thought of the people I knew who broke bones for a sawbuck and could make a man totally disappear for twice that. “I need to check this, you know. I only have your side of things.”

  “And I’m just a kid.”

  “Miss Saeger, I’d say the same thing to Eleanor Roosevelt if she was in that chair. Lemme make a phone call. Anyone going to be worried you’re gone?”

  “I snuck out and got a taxi. Flora and I had a fight tonight and she thinks I’m sulking in my room. She’s busy, anyway—the new séance.”

  “Uh-huh.” I dialed Gordy at the Nightcrawler Club and asked if he had any dirt on an Alistair Bradford, professional medium.

  “Medium what?” asked Gordy in his sleepy-sounding voice.

  “A swami, you know, séances, fortune-telling. It’s for a case. I’m filling in for Charles.”

  He grunted, and he sounded amused. “You at his office? Ten minutes.” He hung up. As the Nightcrawler was a longer than ten-minute drive away I took him to mean he’d phone back, not drop by.

  “Ten minutes,” I repeated to Miss Saeger. “What’s with the black getup? You still in mourning for your brother-in-law?”

  “It was the only way I could think of to cover my face. I’m full grown, but soon as anyone looks at me they think I’m fifteen or something.”

  “And you’re really . . . ?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Miss Saeger, you are one brave and brainy sixteen-year-old, so I’m sure you’re aware that this is a school night.”

  “My sister is more important than that, but thank you for the reminder.” There was a dryness in her tone that would have done credit to Escott. A couple years from now and she’d be one formidable young woman.

  “What time is this séance?”

  “Nine o’clock. Always.”

  “Not at midnight?”

  “Some of the older Society members get too sleepy if things go much past ten.”

  “Why tonight instead of next Sunday?”

  “James’ birthday. Bradford said that holding a sitting on the loved one’s birthday always means something special.”

  “Like what?”

  “He won’t say, he just smiles. It makes my skin crawl. I swear, if he’s not stopped I’ll get one of James’ golf clubs and—” She went red in the face again, stood up, and paced. I did that when the pent up energy got to be too much.

  I tried to get more from her on tonight’s event, but she didn’t have anything else to add, though she had plenty of comment about Bradford’s antics. Guys like him I’d met before, they’re always the first to look you square in the eye and assure you they’re honest long before you begin to wonder.

  The phone rang in seven minutes. Abigail Saeger halted in midword and stride and sat, leaning forward as I put the receiver to my ear. Gordy was like a library for all that was crooked in the great city of Chicago, with good reason: if he wasn’t behind it himself, he knew who was and where to find them. He gave me slim pickings about Bradford, but it was enough to confirm that the guy was trouble. He’d done some stage work as a magician, Alistair the Great, until discovering there was more cash to be had conjuring dead relatives from thin air instead of rabbits. He preferred to collect as much money in the shortest time, then make an exit. The wealthy widow Weisinger was too good a temptation to a man looking for an easy way to retire.

  “You need help with this bo’?” Gordy asked.

  “I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “Well?” asked Miss Saeger.

  I hung up. “Count me in, ma’am.”

  “That sounds so old. My name’s Abby.”

  “Fine, y
ou can sign it here.” I pulled out one of Escott’s standard contracts. It was short and vague, mostly a statement that the Escott Agency was retained for services by, with a blank after that and room for the date.

  “How much will this be?”

  “Five bucks should do it.”

  “It has to be more than that. I read detective stories.”

  “Special sale, tonight only. Anyone walking in here named Abby pays five bucks, no more, no less.”

  For a second I thought she’d kiss me, and I was prepared to duck out of range. If my girlfriend found out I’d canoodled, however innocently or briefly, with a mere pippin of sixteen I would find myself dead for real and for ever after.

  Abby signed, fished a five-dollar bill from her pocketbook, and took my receipt in exchange. I put the money and the contract in Escott’s top desk drawer along with my shorthand notes. He’d have a fine time trying to figure things out when he came in tomorrow morning. I harvested my overcoat and fedora from the coat tree in the corner, and ushered my newest client out, locking up. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then pulled the veil back over her face.

  “Afraid someone will recognize you?” I asked. The street was empty.

  “No sense in taking chances.”

  Now I really liked her. I opened my new Studebaker up and handed her in, checking the sky. It had been threatening to sleet since before I got up tonight; I hoped it would hold off.

  “Nice car,” she said.

  The nicest I’d ever owned. My faithful ’34 Buick had come to a bad end, but this sporty replacement helped ease the loss. I got the motor purring, remembered to turn the headlights on, and put it in gear, pulling slowly from the curb. “Where’s your brother-in-law buried?” As Abby’s chin was just visible, I could see her jaw drop.

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “I want to pay my respects.”

  “The cemetery will be closed.”

  “Which one? And where?”

  She told me, finally, and I made a U-turn and got us on our way. Chicago traffic was no worse than usual as we headed toward Lincolnwood. Following Abby’s directions we ended up driving slow along North Ravenswood Avenue. A railroad track on our left obscured the view of the cemetery grounds. When a cross street opened, I took the turn under the tracks. A pale stone building with crenellations, Gothic windows, square, two-storied tower with a number of slender, round towers at the corners and along the front wall looked back at us. It had too much dignity to be embarrassed. The gates that blocked its arched central opening were, indeed, closed.

  “Told you,” said Abby.

  “Is Mr. Weisinger anywhere near the front?” This place looked huge. They only put fancy stone buildings like that in front of the really large cemeteries.

  “Go back south and turn on Bryn Mawr, I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  What the lady said. It took awhile to find a sufficiently secluded place to park, then Abby provided very specific directions to the grave, which was not too far from the boundary wall.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  I was about to say she didn’t want to know, but decided that would get me an observation about not treating her like an adult. “I’m going to check to see if the grave has been disturbed enough to bring in the law.”

  “But the police, the papers—”

  “A necessary evil. If they show up asking Bradford how he got that wedding ring, how long do you think he’ll stick around?”

  “Would they put him in jail?” She looked hopeful.

  “We’ll see. You gonna be warm enough? Good. I’ll be quick.”

  “Don’t you want me along?”

  “I’ll bet you’re good at it, but you’re not exactly dressed for getting around fences.”

  She looked relieved.

  I slammed the door, opened the trunk, and drew out a crowbar from the tool box I kept there. Since Abby didn’t need to see it and try to guess why I’d want one I held it out of sight while approaching the cemetery’s boundary. It was made of iron bars with points on top, an easy climb if you were nimble.

  I had the agility, but slipped between the bars instead. Literally. One of my happier talents acquired after my death was being able to vanish and float just about anywhere I liked, invisible as air. Since it was dark and there was some distance between me and the car I figured Abby wouldn’t see much if I partially vanished, eased through, and went solid again. Blink of an eye and it was done.

  The cemetery grounds were covered with a thick layer of mostly undisturbed snow. Trees, bushes, and monuments of all shapes showed black against it. I made my way to one of the wide paths that had been shoveled clear, looking out for the landmark of an especially ornate mausoleum with marble columns in front. Weisinger’s grave marker was just behind it. The dates on the substantial granite block told me he’d been born this day and was only a few years younger than I, the poor bastard. Another, identical, block sprouted right next to it with his widow’s name and date of birth already in place.

  The snow lay differently over his plot, clumped and broken, dirtier than the stuff in the surrounding area. Footprints were all over, but not being an Indian tracker I couldn’t make much from them, only that someone had recently been busy here and worn galoshes.

  I poked the long end of the crowbar into the soil, and it went in far too easily. Ground that had had seven months to settle and freeze in the winter weather would have put up more resistance. Bradford or someone working for him had dug down, opened the coffin, grabbed the wedding ring, and put the earth back. Then he’d taken the trouble to dump a shovelfuls of snow on top so a casual eye wouldn’t notice. He was probably hoping there’d be another fall soon to cover the rest of the evidence.

  The ghoulishness of the robbery appalled me, the level of greed behind it disgusted me. I knew some tough customers who worked for Gordy, and even they would have balked at this level of low.

  The moment Abigail Saeger told me about Weisinger’s death on the lake I’d signed myself onto the job. Something twinged inside me then, connecting that death to my own and to that damned “Gloomy Sunday” song playing on the radio. I didn’t want to believe in coincidences of the weird kind; signs and portents were strictly for the fortune-teller’s booth at the midway.

  But still . . . I got a twinge.

  It was different from the goose-flesh creep that means someone’s walking over your grave. When it came down to it, I didn’t have a grave, just that lake. The people who’d murdered me had also robbed me of a proper burial. Weisinger had gotten one but Bradford had violated it.

  That was just wrong.

  And just as that thought crossed my mind the wind abruptly kicked up, rattling the bare branches as though the trees were waking up around me. They scratched and clacked and I tried not imagine bones making a similar noise, but it was too late.

  “All right, keep your shirt on,” I said to no one in particular, stepping away from the grave. It sure as hell felt like someone was listening.

  I was dead (or undead), surrounded by acres of the truly dead. The wind sent snow dust skittering along the black path. My imagination gave it form and purpose as it swept by. A sizable icicle from high up broke away and dropped like a spear, making a pop as loud as a gun shot when it hit a stone marker and shattered not two yards away. If my heart had been beating it would have stopped then and there.

  It’s easy to be calm about weird coincidence when one is not in a cemetery at night. I decided it was time to leave. That I winked out quick and sped invisibly over the ground toward the fence faster than a scalded cat was my own business. Anyway, I went solid again as soon as I was on the other side.

  Abby and I needed to get to her house before nine.

  That’s what I told myself while quick-marching to the car, consciously not looking over my shoulder.

  Rich people live in some damned oddball houses. The Weisinger place started out with Frank Lloyd Wright on the ground floor, lot
s of glass and native stone, then the rest looked like a Tudor mansion straight from The Private Life of Henry VIII. I could almost see Charles Laughton waving cheerily from an upper window, framed by dark wood cross pieces set into the plaster.

  “It’s awful, but roomy,” said Abby as I parked across the street to indulge in a good long stare.

  “You okay for going back without getting caught?”

  “Yes, but aren’t you coming in?”

  “This is the part where I do some sneaking around.”

  “They’ll catch you, they’ll think you’re a burglar!”

  “You hired an expert. Look, we can’t go through the front so you can introduce me to everyone. It’ll put Bradford on his guard, and your sister will be within her rights to kick me out.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Exactly what’s needed to get rid of him—and for that you need an alibi so they’ll know you aren’t involved. This means you can’t hide behind that screen as usual. You said there’re servants? Do they eavesdrop? Perfect. Think you can eavesdrop with them?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Good for you. Whatever happens I want them to truthfully vouch that you were with them the whole time. This keeps you off the hook with Flora. I’m going to do my best to make Bradford look bad, so you have to be completely clear. Can you look innocent? Never mind, you’re a natural.” I checked my watch: twenty to nine. “I need a sketch of the floor plan.”

  I pulled a shorthand pad from the glove compartment and gave her a pencil. A street lamp on the corner bled just enough light to work by as she plotted out an irregular shape, dividing it into squares and rectangles, putting a big X in to mark the parlor.

  “That’s the ground floor.” She handed the pad over. “Kitchen, dining room, card room, music room, small parlor, large parlor, that’s where they have the séances. How will you—”

  “Trade secret. You’ll get your money’s worth and then some, now beat it. Shuck those weeds and keep some witnesses around you. Don’t be alone for a minute.” She got out of the car quickly, coming around to the driver’s side. I rolled the window down. “One more thing . . . ”