wrinkled brow. Her eyes closed.
Then she was speaking, and her voice came from far away—as if from inside herself, as if from inside the envelope.
“Should I sell my property to the syndicate or hold out for the original figure?” she whispered.
A red-faced, mustached Jack-in-the-box popped up. “That’s it!” he shouted. “By golly, that’s my question, all right.”
Professor Hermann never blinked. Everyone else was leaning forward, tense with excitement.
Mrs. Hubbard smiled. “Please, control yourselves. It makes it more difficult for me to concentrate.” She opened the envelope now, unfolded the sheet, glanced at it carelessly, and I placed it in the wicker basket. And all the while, she continued to talk.
“As it comes to me, Mr. Rogers, this property you refer to consists of a block of eight lots just south of San Juan Capistrano, on the coast highway. This syndicate of which you speak, the—”
Rogers opened his mouth and she paused. “Of course I will not mention their names, if you prefer. But it is true, isn’t it, that they plan to build a hotel on this site? And that yesterday they offered you $18,000 cash for an outright sale, while you are holding out for $25,000? I thought so. It appears that if you refuse, they will offer you $20,000 on Thursday. If you still refuse, on Monday they will meet your price.”
Without pausing, the plump hand sought another envelope, pressed it to the red forehead. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened.
“Will Mike leave me?”
Lorna Lewis leaned forward. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s my question.”
Mrs. Hubbard nodded, slitting the envelope. She tossed the unfolded paper into the basket, glancing at it and nodding at the same time.
“Mike will leave you soon—forever. He is preparing to depart right now. He hasn’t told you yet, because he doesn’t know about it himself, fully. But I see him going away from you, going far, far away—”
The girl’s mouth opened. Mrs. Hubbard apparently was used to this reaction, for she hurried on. “I could tell you much more, but it would not be discreet. Alone, perhaps, and later, if you desire.”
Again I tried to pierce Professor Hermann’s bland stare. I tried to figure it out. There must be an angle, an answer to all this, but where?
“Will my new venture be successful?”
She was reading my question!
My own mouth opened now. It sucked in air as I watched Mrs. Hubbard carelessly unseal the envelope and withdraw the folded paper. She unravelled it and then—
Something red fluttered to the table; something bold and brazen, with the picture of a half-naked girl emblazoned on its crimson background.
It was the cover of the
Professor Hermann was on his feet, snatching at the cover. “You made a mistake in the envelopes,” he said. “My question, I believe.”
Mrs. Hubbard’s open mouth gulped for words. When they came, they sounded in a sweetly audible cadence.
“You lousy rat!”
But she couldn’t escape. We were crowded around the table now and the Professor, inarticulate no longer, was holding forth.
“You see, it’s very simple. The whole trick is old as the hills. While the audience is looking for mirrors, electronic detectors, all kinds of elaborate devices, the fake mystic is merely using the old ‘one-ahead’ system. All she needs for that is a stooge. In this case, it was Rogers, here.”
The red-faced mustached man who had popped up like a Jack-in-the-box now looked as though he would collapse like one. But the Professor held his arm firmly.
“Here’s how it works. The stooge writes his question and seals it up like all the others, but he marks his envelope by nicking the flap with his fingernail. The medium spots it at a glance. Here.”
He held up an envelope—unopened.
“This she saves until the last. But she calls out the stooge’s question, first. She knows it in advance, of course. Then the stooge jumps up and makes a big production about hearing the correct question. She opens the envelope she’s held to her forehead. Naturally, it’s one of the others containing a legitimate question which she reads after opening the envelope. So while answering the stooge’s question, in convincing detail, she was actually reading Miss Lewis’ question from the envelope she opened. Then, with the next envelope, she answered Miss Lewis. Then she opened the flap and found Mr. Roberts’ question.
“But when she called Mr. Roberts’ question, she opened my envelope—and that was her mistake.”
“All right, fink,” muttered Mrs. Hubbard. “What do you want?”
The Professor shrugged. “Nothing at all, really, from you—except your promise to quit working a racket on people who are in need of genuine assistance from reputable consultants. I don’t think you’ll be trying these tricks around here very much longer.”
“Why you goddamn—”
“Careful, now! Watch your language. You aren’t very ladylike, Mrs. Hubbard. Of course, appearances are deceptive; you ladies and gentlemen must always remember that. For example, Mrs. Hubbard here does not use ladylike language because she really isn’t a lady. In fact—”
The Professor’s hand descended to Mrs. Hubbard’s head. It rose again, clutching a brown-bunned wig. We gaped down at a fat, bald-headed man who gripped the edge of the table and cursed like the producer of a sustaining show.
Professor Hermann ignored his victim as he turned to us with a little bow.
“My friends,” he said. “I think our little session with the supernatural is over.”
We drove Lorna Lewis home. It was hard for me to remember that I was “Judson Roberts” and that I was under a vow of silence. But the Professor was in the driver’s seat. He drove, I fidgeted, and Lorna Lewis babbled.
“You were so right,” she sighed. “And I’m so grateful to you. If that racketeer had found out about me—I mean, if I’d trusted him and really told a lot of things I need advice on—”
She shivered. It felt good against me.
Professor Hermann smiled. “Perhaps in the future you will be more discreet. Only a reputable consultant should be trusted with your intimate problems.”
“That’s what Mike tells me.” She lit a cigarette, and it was agony for me to sit there and smell the smoke flaring from her mouth. “About Mike—there’s something I must know.”
“Bothering you, is he?”
“Yes. And I want you to help me. I can trust you, now. When could we talk about it?”
“Miss Bauer makes all my appointments. Call her at my office whenever you wish.”
He left it at that when we dropped her at the house. She said goodbye to me and hoped we’d meet again. I nodded calmly. As her peach-colored posterior wiggled its way up the walk, I was tearing open a package of cigarettes, fumbling with the matches. I got a light as we drove west.
“Can I talk now?” I asked.
The Professor nodded.
“I don’t get the pitch yet, but I can see that you’ve sold her a bill of goods.”
He smiled.
“That was a sweet idea, using the magazine cover. But what if it had been some other racket—were you sure of being able to expose it anyway?”
“Certainly. There is no possibility of failure, the way I operate. You will learn that in due time.”
“Where are we going now?”
“You shall see.”
“When are you going to tell me about those plans of yours?”
“Soon.”
I shut up and watched the lights of Santa Monica flash by. We kept going, hugging the edge of the ocean
