This was fair warning; for though Mark Mallow never barked, his bite was an essential part of his life. Few people ever questioned his judgment in his chosen field of criticism; Starrett and Queen and Sandoe were in constant correspondence with him and respected his taste; but no one had ever accused him of immoderate softheartedness. He was honest, and he wrote a rave review when necessary; but the words sounded forced and compelled. His pannings, on the other hand, were gems of concise assassination, surgically accurate scalpel work that drew life blood.
He had fun.
Mallow nodded to The Reverend, smiled at Miss Wentz, and groaned at the weekly stack of whodunits set aside for him. Then he looked over the general section on the right, picked out a couple of works that bordered on his interests, and paused with a whistle of amazement. He took down a book, stared at its title page, and said, “I ’ll be damned! If you’ll pardon me, Reverend?”
The Reverend, who had long concurred in the opinion, said “Quite.”
“Jerome Blackland, or I’ll be several things I shouldn’t mention here. Jot me down for this, Miss Wentz, if you please; this ought to be good clean sport.”
Miss Wentz looked up automatically and then made a sharp little noise of exasperation. “How did that get back there?”
“It was right here,” Mallow said.
“I know . . . and I’ll take my oath on a stack of Bibles that I put it over on the left not once but twice. Didn’t I?”
The Reverend nodded. “I saw you.”
“And now it’s . . . Oh well. He doesn’t want it reviewed, but if it interests you especially . . .”
“Why?” The Reverend asked.
Mallow extended the book open at its mad title page. “You see that unbelievable name, Hieronymus Melanchthon?”
“A pseudonym, of course. So much of that quasi-mystical literature is pseudonymous.”
“Like the man who wrote under the name of St. John a century or so later?” Mallow asked slyly. “Well, I know who’s back of this pseud. Translate it, and what do you get?”
The Reverend summoned up his seminarian Greek. “Jerome Black . . . land, would it be?”
“Exactly. Rich screwball New Yorker. Got all tangled up with black magic and stuff and turned out an amazing opus, half-novel, half-autobiography, that made William Seabrook and Montague Summers look like skeptics. I had fun with it. I think I’ll have fun with this, too— Damn!” He broke off and stared at his thumb. “I’m bleeding. Did this infernal opus up and take a nip at me? No . . . I’m not bleeding. It’s off the book. What the devil kind of ink is this?”
The Reverend looked—and was—perplexed. On his own hand the smudge from that strangely printed volume was black. On Mark Mallow’s it was blood-red. It seemed perverse. Doubtless some simple explanation—some chemical salt present in Mallow’s body secretions and not in his which acted as reagent . . . Nevertheless he was nervous, and found an occasion promptly to leave the office.
Mallow went on into the inner office to confer with The Great Man, leaving The Blood behind him. This time it stayed put, waiting for him. Miss Wentz tried to type again, but still the room was unempty. Not until Mallow and his book-crammed briefcase had departed did the room feel ordinary again.
Mark Mallow settled himself comfortably on the Bridge train. It was the commuters’ hour and the train was packed; but experience and ingenuity always combined to get him a seat. When he had finished a cursory examination of the afternoon newspaper, he spread it over his trouser legs, hoisted his briefcase up onto his lap, and began rummaging among the week’s stock. The paunchy businessman occupying the other half of the seat needed more than a half for his bulk; but Mallow’s muscles, skilled in this form of civilian commando, unconsciously fended off his encroachment.
The ride over the Bay Bridge, even by train (which operates on a lower and less scenic level than motor traffic), is beautiful and exciting the first time. But habitues never glance out the window unless to attempt to draw deductions from ships in port at the moment. Mark Mallow saw nothing of the splendor of the bay as he selected the latest Simenon to enjoy on the trip. (For Mallow did enjoy reading a good whodunit; he merely hated to write about any but the stinkers.)
He read the first page over three times before he realized that the endeavor was vain. Something urged him to replace the Simenon in the briefcase and extract another volume, the one with the oddly figured jacket. His hand seemed to move of itself, and at the same time his muscles announced the surprising fact that there was no longer a pressure from the businessman. In fact, he seemed to be edging away.
Mallow smiled as he opened the book. The pretentious absurdity of the title page delighted him, and the text more than lived up to it. (The businessman did not look the type who would give his seat to a lady.) It is, I suppose, inevitable, Mallow reflected, that those who seek to express the inexpressible should have no talent for expression. (The lady did not look the type to refuse a seat either.) Surely worth a choice stabbing little paragraph for the column. A joy, if only it weren’t for this damned ink . . . (The seat remained vacant, in that crowded car, for the whole of the trip. Mallow did not notice it; it seemed as though there were some one there.)
The Reverend was still a trifle perturbed. It was ridiculous that one should worry about such a nothing as a minor chemical oddity. Had
