“They are small publications, if you like. Indeed their page size is but five by seven and a half, seldom does an issue have a folio in excess of one hundred—often my little staff and I are delighted to see that advertising, the support, largely, of a few stalwart friends who have clung to us through the years, permits a page count in the nineties. Each title appears but half a dozen times per year; no slick paper for us, and no covers from famous photographers, no pictures of five-hundred-dollar-an-hour trollops. On a magazine rack, beside the great periodicals of the day, ours are small and shabby enough.
“But appearance is less than everything. And though in saying it I defame the God of the Age, no, Mammon Himself is not everything. These tiny and yet precious bundles of inexpensive paper—inexpensive, that is, in the eyes of men who need not pay for it—are the respected journals of those who seek to penetrate the veil of illusion and reach Ultimate Truth. And what is that but to say the sole class of mankind having any importance on the rolls of eternity? I have conducted these publications for more than thirty years, and thus I—even I, who have no more than the most rudimentary powers, the powers any man on earth might develop with very little application—even I have a certain, shall we say, cachet? A cachet, then, among many of the leading psychics of our day.”
“You—” the witch began.
“Did I say
“You contacted some of these people?”
“I did indeed. There are certain ones—persons whom I am accustomed to call the Secret Masters. No, not the Secret Masters of this our world, who are said to dwell among inaccessible peaks, but certain personages whom I know to be more than legends, personages who dwell (sometimes amid the most humble circumstances) within ten leagues of where we sit, those whom I name the Secret Masters of the City.”
The witch said, “I would have called Ben Free such a one. Or one who is above them.”
Illingworth lifted a finger to his lips. “My dear, I beg you not to speak here of Those Who Are Above. Let it suffice to say that tonight, when your King’s dread minions consented to the restoration of the dynamos, I was approached by a certain individual. I was told of a location and given what I may call without too much inaccuracy a key. I called your King with my happy news and was told that you, my dear, were expected shortly. And now, if you will consent to ride in an old car with an old man … ?”
“You are going yourself?”
Illingworth smiled again. “My dear, it is I who bear the sesame, if I may so phrase it, that will fling wide the portals of the enchanted cavern. Besides, I wouldn’t miss it for gold.”
Spinach
If Stubb had been paying more attention to his surroundings and less to Candy, or if Candy had been paying attention to anything, they would, as they entered the Consort’s bar, have seen Oswald Barnes standing before the hotel’s main entrance.
If they had, they presumably and understandably would not have recognized him. He wore an overcoat with a rich fur collar, like a theatrical impresario; from beneath it protruded pants legs that plainly belonged to a gray pinstriped suit of bankerly cut, legs terminating, regrettably, in the sort of black patent-leather shoes worn with a dinner jacket. On his head sat a black homburg that might have graced the Ambassador to the Court of St. James. His hands were tastefully attired in gloves of the thinnest and softest pigskin, and he clasped them behind his back as he waited, humming a little tune about being strong to the finish. If he was cold, he showed no sign of it.
Five minutes after Stubb and Candy had gone into the bar, two things occurred at once. A small and slightly soiled boy came running down the sidewalk toward Barnes. And a large and gleaming gray auto pulled up to the curb in front of him. Little Ozzie called, “Daddy!” and Robin Valor inquired, “Osgood Barnes?” like unrehearsed actors stepping on each other’s lines.
Barnes was a man of many flaws, but slowness of thought was never one of them, and he was abundantly blessed with that instinct America values above all the rest, the one that makes a man grab all he can. He swept Little Ozzie into his arms and stepped into the gray car with almost the same motion. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Osgood Barnes. At your service—very much so. Little Ozzie, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with Candy?”
“Mama said I was supposed to live with you,” Little Ozzie announced firmly. “I rode on the big bus.”
Barnes shook his head ruefully. “I’m divorced,” he said. “Did I tell you that over the phone?”
The gray sedan left the curb with a crunch of ice. “I think so,” Robin murmured. “Anyway, I assumed it.”
“Well, I am. And this is my son, Osgood Myles Barnes, Junior.”
Robin glanced across at him and smiled. ‘Hi, Osgood.”
“Ozzie,” Little Ozzie said.
Barnes added, “You can call me that too. Little Ozzie, where are the people who were supposed to take care of you tonight?”
“I don’t know.” The boy was enjoying the warmth of the car; he was already near sleep.
“Did you run away from them?”
“I ran away from the clown.”
“Why was that?”
“Because I wanted to find you.”
Barnes gave him a lopsided smile and rumpled his hair. Robin said, “We can’t very well take him on our date, can we?”
When the gray sedan pulled up before the Consort again, she got out with the two Ozzies. In her four-inch heels, she was taller than both.
The doorman smiled at them. “Registering, folks?”
