I seized his arm and opened my mouth in protestation too urgent for words. “John,” he said slowly and reproachfully, “are you willfully harboring a spirit?” A knock on the door cut the scene short and gave me a breathing spell. I like Charlie, but I don’t think I’ve ever before been so relieved to see him.
“Hi,” he said, and “Hi,” again to Father Svatomir. “That’s the advantage of being celibate,” he added. “You can grow a beard. I tried to once, but the waitress down at the Greek’s didn’t like it.”
Father Svatomir smiled faintly.
“Three glasses, mine host,” Charlie commanded, and produced from under his arm a tall bottle of greenish glass. “Told you I had a surprise.”
I fetched three whiskey glasses and set them on the table. Charlie filled them with a flourish. “Noble stuff, this,” he announced. “Want to hear what you gentlemen think of it. There’s supposed to be a ritual goes with it, but I like it straight. Down the esophagus, boys!”
Was it Shelley who used the phrase “potable gold”? Whoever it was had surely tasted this liquor. It flowed down like some molten metal that had lost the dangerous power to scorch, but still glowed with rich warmth. While the subtle half-perceived flavor still clove to my mouth, I could feel the tingling heat reach my fingertips.
“By Heaven,” I cried, “nothing like this has happened to the blood stream since Harvey discovered the circulation. Charlie, my lad, this is henceforth my tipple!” Father Svatomir beamed and nodded. “I concur heartily. Tell us, Charles, what is this wondrous brew?”
“Tequila,” said Charlie, and I dropped my glass.
“What is the trouble, my son? You’re pale and trembling.”
“Look, Johnny. I know it’s high-proof stuff, but it hadn’t ought to hit you like that.”
I hardly heard them. All I knew was that the onetime barrier separating me from my murder was now removed. I had come to like tequila. I bent over to pick up the glass, and as I did so I saw a hand reach out from the consulting room. It touched the tequila bottle lightly and withdrew clutching a freshly dematerialized fifth.
Charlie refilled the three glasses, “Another one’ll put you back on your feet, Johnny. It’s swell stuff once you get used to it.”
Father Svatomir was still concerned. “John,” he insisted, “was it the tequila? Or did you . . . have you sensed what we were speaking of before?”
I gulped the second glass. “I’m all right,” I protested. “A couple more of these and I’ll— Was that a knock?”
Charlie looked around. “Consulting-room door, I think. Shall I go check?”
I slipped quickly between him and the door. “Never mind. I’ll see.”
“Had I better go with you?” the priest suggested. “If it were what I warned you of—”
“It’s OK. I’ll go.”
My ghost was lolling back in my chair with his feet propped up on the desk. One hand held Fanny Hill and the other the tequila. “I got a good look at the guy that brought this,” he volunteered without looking up. “He’s all right.”
“Fine. Now I have to let in a patient. Could you briefly disappear?”
“Uh-uh. Not till the cock crows.”
“Then please hide. Try that cupboard—I think it’s big enough.”
He started for the cupboard, returned for book and bottle, and went back to shut himself up in comfort. I opened the outer door a very small crack and said, “Who is it?”
“Me, Dr. Adams. Nick Wojcek.”
I opened the door without a tremor. Whatever Father Svatomir might say about the other inhabitants of Cobbsville, I knew I had nothing to fear from the man whose daughter was my most startlingly successful cure to date. I could still see the pitiful animal terror in his eyes when he had brought her to me and the pure joy that had glistened in them when I told him she was well.
“Come in, Nick. Sit down and be comfortable.”
He obeyed the first half of my injunction, but he fidgeted most uncomfortably. Despite his great height anci his grizzled hair, he lookeci like a painfully uncertain child embarrassed by the presence of strange adults. “My Ljuba,” he faltered. “You got those pictures you tell me about?”
“I saw them today. And it’s good news, Nick. Your Ljuba is all well again. It’s all healed up.”
“She stay that way now?”
“I hope to God. But I can’t promise. So long as you live in this dump and breathe cement dust day in and day out, I can’t guarantee you a thing. But I think she’ll be well now. Let her marry some nice young man who’ll take her away from here into the clean air.”
“No,” he said sullenly.
“But come, Nick,” I said gently. It was pleasant to argue an old man’s foibles for a moment instead of fretting over your approaching murder. “She has to lead her own life.”
“You tell me what do? You go to hell!”
I drew back astounded. There was the sheer venom of hatred in that last phrase. “Nick!” I protested.
He was on his feet now, and in his hand was an ancient but nonetheless lethallooking revolver. “You make magic,” he was saying slowly and harshly. “God would let my Ljuba die. You make her live. Black magic. Don’t want daughter from magic.”
“Nick,” I urged as quietly as I could, “don’t be a damned fool. There are people in the next room. Suppose I call for them?”
“I kill you first,” said Nick Wojcek simply.
“But they’ll find you here. You can’t get away. They’ll burn you for this, Nick. Then what’ll become of Ljuba?”
He hesitated, but the muzzle of the revolver never wavered. Now that I was
