No! – He had telephoned from nearby, he said; the idea had suddenly occurred to him, it was an impulse, pure chance that he happened to have on him the object he was sure would interest me.
I gave him a pained, doubting look, and said:
“Are you a ghost, or are you real? Be honest! You can tell me! You can’t imagine how fond I am of ghosts; it’ll only make our chat all the more cosy.”
Lipotin was not at all put off by my rather odd joke, and there was a smile in the corners of his eyes as he replied:
“This time I am perfectly real, my friend. How else could I bring you such a ... find!?”
He dug into one of his many pockets and held out his hand towards me. In his fingers he held a small red ivory sphere.
I was thunderstruck – almost literally, as I felt a shock run through my nerves from the back of my head and down my spine to the tips of my toes.
“The sphere from St. Dunstan’s grave!” I stammered.
Lipotin grinned his most cynical grin.
“You are dreaming, my friend. You seem to have a thing about red balls. Have you just had bad luck at billiards?”
With those words he put the red sphere back in his pocket and looked as if nothing had happened.
“Excuse me,” I said, in some confusion, “certain things have been happening, certain ... give me the red ball, please, I am interested in it.”
Lipotin seemed not to hear me; with an inquisitive look on his face, he had gone over to my desk and was now staring intently at the coal crystal in its gold setting.
“Where did you get that from?”
I pointed to the open Tula-ware box.
“From you!”
“Aha! Congratulations.”
“What for?”
“So that was what was inside Stroganoff’s last possession? Remarkable!”
“What is remarkable?” I insisted, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
Screwing up his left eye, Lipotin said:
“Beautifully delicate workmanship! Bohemian. One is almost reminded of the celebrated goldsmith of the Emperor Rudolf, Jaroslav Hradlik from Prague.”
Prague? Something within me responded to the name, but I said to Lipotin in irritation:
“Lipotin, you know very well that at this precise moment I am not at all interested in your expertise in the field of arts and crafts. This object is more important to me – –”
“Yes, yes. Just look at the excellent workmanship on the stand.”
“Stop it, Lipotin!” I commanded angrily. “As you seem to know everything, tell me instead how to use this thing you have lumbered me with.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“I cannot see anything in it”, I answered brusquely.
“Aha, so that’s it!” said Lipotin in feigned surprise.
“There! I knew you understood what I mean.” I crowed. I felt as if I had all the cards in my hand.
“Easy!” mumbled Lipotin, plucking the inevitable cigarette from his lip and casually tossing the glowing end into my wastepaper basket, something I found extremely irritating. “Easy! It’s a magic crystal; a scrying glass, as they say in Scotland.”
“Why Scotland?” I interrupted, like a judge conducting a trial.
“Well, it certainly comes from a place where they speak English,” said Lipotin and pointed a languid fingernail at a finely engraved inscription, half-concealed by late Gothic tracery, running around the claws of the stand. I had missed it until now. It was in English, and ran:
“This ancient and noble stone, full of magical power, once belonged to the honoured master of all occult wisdom, the unfortunate John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill. In the year he was called to his Maker, 1607.”
There – as if I needed it – was documentary evidence that John Dee’s most valued possession, which he held higher than gold and all the riches of this world, had found its ordained way to me, his appointed heir and executor of his destiny. This discovery removed any last lingering doubts as to Lipotin’s inner identity. I put my hand on his shoulder and said:
“Well, old messenger of the mysteries, won’t you tell me what you have brought this time? What is the point of the red sphere? Are we going to transmute lead? Are we going to make gold?”
Lipotin turned his foxy face towards me and, in a calm, deliberative tone, gave his evasive answer:
“So you have already attempted to use the coal? And you couldn’t see anything?”
He refused to listen to me. As so often, he obstinately went his own way. No matter; I am accustomed to it. You have to go along with it, otherwise you cannot get anything out of him. I replied coolly:
“No. I can’t see anything in it, however I go about it.”
“I’m not surprised.” – Lipotin shrugged his shoulders.
“And how would you go about trying to see something in the crystal?”
“Me? I’ve no ambition to be a medium.”
“A medium? Otherwise it’s impossible, you think?”
“The simplest way would be to become a medium,” Lipotin answered.
“And how does one become a medium?”
“Just ask Schrenck Notzing.” A malicious smile played about his lips.
I ignored his mockery. “To tell you the truth, I, too, lack both the desire and the time to become a medium. But did you not just say that to be a medium is merely the simplest way. What would be less simple?”
“To give up the whole idea of crystal-gazing.”
I had to change tack. “Your paradoxical mind has got it right again; I am unwilling to give up the whole idea. Certain circumstances lead me to believe that there are images fixed – that is the expression occultists would use, I presume – upon the faces of this coal, images of the past, let us say, which are not without their importance for me ...”
“Then you will have to take a risk!”
“What
