?The ladder??
?And down
The grass at the base of the wall, about five feet out, a proper angle, had two half-inch ladder indentations in it.
?And here. See??
I showed him a long depression where the grass had been crushed by something falling.
?Well, well,? murmured Roy. ?Looks like Halloween?s starting over.?
Roy knelt on the grass and put his long bony fingers out to trace the print of the heavy flesh that had lain there in the cold rain only twelve hours ago.
I knelt with Roy staring down at the long indentation, and shivered.
?I?? I said, and stopped.
For a shadow moved between us.
?Morning!?
The graveyard day watchman stood over us.
I glanced at Roy, quickly. ?Is this the right gravestone? It?s been years. Is??
The next flat tombstone was covered with leaves. I scrabbled the dust away. There was a half-seen name beneath. SMYTHE. BORN 1875-DIED 1928.
?Sure! Old grandpa!? cried Roy. ?Poor guy. Died of pneumonia.? Roy helped me brush away the dust. ?I sure loved him. He??
?Where?re your flowers?? said the heavy voice, above us.
Roy and I stiffened.
?Ma?s bringing ?em,? said Roy. ?We came ahead, to find the stone.? Roy glanced over his shoulder. ?She?s out there now.?
The graveyard day watchman, a man long in years and deep in suspicion, with a face not unlike a weathered tombstone, glanced toward the gate.
A woman, bearing flowers, was coming up the road, far out, near Santa Monica Boulevard.
Thank God, I thought.
The watchman snorted, chewed his gums, wheeled about, and strode off among the graves. Just in time, for the woman had stopped and headed off, away from us.
We jumped up. Roy grabbed some flowers off a nearby mound.
?Don?t!?
?Like hell!? Roy stashed the flowers on Grandpa Smythe?s stone. ?Just in case that guy comes back and wonders why there?re no flowers after all our gab. Come on!?
We moved out about fifty yards and waited, pretending to talk, but saying little. Finally, Roy touched my elbow. ?Careful,? he whispered. ?Side glances. Don?t look straight on. He?s back.?
And indeed the old watchman had arrived at the place near the wall where the long impressions of the fallen body still remained.
He looked up and saw us. Quickly, I put my arm around Roy?s shoulder to ease his sadness.
Now the old man bent. With raking fingers, he combed the grass. Soon there was no trace of anything heavy that might have fallen from the sky last night, in a terrible rain.
?You believe now?? I said.
?I wonder,? said Roy, ?where that hearse went to.?
9
As we were driving back in through the main gate of the studio, the hearse whispered out. Empty. Like a long autumn wind it drifted off, around, and back to Death?s country.
?Jesus Christ! Just like I guessed!? Roy steered but stared back at the empty street. ?I?m beginning to enjoy this!?
We moved along the street in the direction from which the hearse had been coming.
Fritz Wong marched across the alley in front of us, driving or leading an invisible military squad, muttering and swearing to himself, his sharp profile cutting the air in two halves, wearing a dark beret, the only man in Hollywood who wore a beret and dared anyone to notice!
?Fritz!? I called. ?Stop, Roy!?
Fritz ambled over to lean against the car and give us his by now familiar greeting.
?Hello, you stupid bike-riding Martian! Who?s that strange-looking ape driving??
?Hello, Fritz, you stupid??I faltered and then said sheepishly, ?Roy Holdstrom, world?s greatest inventor, builder, and flier of dinosaurs!?
Fritz Wong?s monocle flashed fire. He fixed Roy with his Oriental-Germanic glare, then nodded crisply.
?Any friend of
