state of mind you’d rather not—”
The pendulum motion of Gavigan’s irritated pacing slowed, then stopped. “Okay, I can take it. Now what?”
Merlini swung the book around. Gavigan took one look and walked off, snorting.
I saw a full-page reproduction of a woodcut in the tortured fifteenth-century style. The word “Surgat” appeared there, together with the incomprehensible assortment of cabalistic symbols that comprised his personal seal. Surgat himself was a leering, furious monster belonging to the genus Pink Elephant. A jigsaw scramble of animal life, his head was that of a brute with a flaring snout, dark-rimmed pop-eyes, and trailing, curled fangs. His body was constructed on the general architectural plan of man’s except for great, limp bat wings that protruded from the shoulders and a torso covered with lizard scales. A bristling cluster of spikes and a thorny, curved tail growing out of his behind must have considerably complicated the art of sitting down. The monstrosity stood on two emaciated hairy legs that terminated in long-clawed talons, four-pronged like a bird’s. One oddly gnarled hand clutched a large, unlikely looking key. The artist must have been, at the very least, a Surrealist hophead suffering from acute delirium tremens. Beneath Surgat’s name I saw the startling inscription, “Drawne from the Life.”
Gavigan’s sarcasm was heavy. “That, I suppose, breaks the case! We hand that tintype to the papers, captioned ‘Wanted, Dead or Alive’ and wait for someone to phone in saying they saw him boarding a subway train at Times Square, or shouting ‘boo!’ at the children in Central Park. Maybe we’d better phone the Zoo in case he’s been turned in to Doc Ditmars. Hmmpf!”
Merlini, managing a straight face, replied, “We’ll hope not, Inspector. I doubt if Dr. Ditmars would give up an exhibit like that without a struggle. Even though you offered him a whole cageful of assorted bushmasters, vampire bats, and duck-billed basilisks.” Then turning his attention to the book again, he reflected aloud: “It would be nice to know about that missing page—and the rest of that invocation. If we can locate another copy of this book…Rosenbach maybe, or—”
“And I,” Gavigan said, underscoring each word, “don’t want to hear any more about it. Just one more mention of hobgoblins, and I’ll have someone’s scalp.”
Alfred LaClaire came in then. He stopped just inside the door and stood there woodenly, his hands in his pockets, his green eyes scowling. He saw Merlini, started slightly, and nodded.
Gavigan turned to him and went to work, sharp staccato questions streaming like ticker tape from his mouth. Quinn scratched busily in his notebook. LaClaire stated that on the previous evening he and his wife had done their usual three turns nightly at La Rumba, one of the village hot spots. Their routine was a twenty-minute one, and they appeared at 9:30, 11:30, and 1:30. He had left after the last show, at about two o’clock, going direct to Tony’s Place, a bar on Sullivan Street.
“Proprietor know you?” Gavigan asked.
“Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“Until four o’clock. Some damn fool put me in a taxi at that point and the fare home was three bucks.”
“A little bit hazy about then?” Gavigan suggested.
LaClaire nodded. “Some, yes. Too many stingers.”
“You didn’t notice the number of the cab or see the driver’s name, then, I suppose?”
“Hardly.”
“You haven’t mentioned your wife. Wasn’t she with you?”
“No, I left her at the club. Look, Inspector, was—was he killed last night?”
Gavigan said, “Maybe. Did Mrs. LaClaire go right home from the club?”
His pause was just a shade too long. He nodded slowly. “That’s where she said she was going.”
Gavigan closed in on that. “And where did she go?”
“She was in bed when I got home.”
“All right. You don’t know where she went. What do you
The pendulum motion of Gavigan’s irritated pacing slowed, then stopped. “Okay, I can take it. Now what?”
Merlini swung the book around. Gavigan took one look and walked off, snorting.
I saw a full-page reproduction of a woodcut in the tortured fifteenth-century style. The word “Surgat” appeared there, together with the incomprehensible assortment of cabalistic symbols that comprised his personal seal. Surgat himself was a leering, furious monster belonging to the genus Pink Elephant. A jigsaw scramble of animal life, his head was that of a brute with a flaring snout, dark-rimmed pop-eyes, and trailing, curled fangs. His body was constructed on the general architectural plan of man’s except for great, limp bat wings that protruded from the shoulders and a torso covered with lizard scales. A bristling cluster of spikes and a thorny, curved tail growing out of his behind must have considerably complicated the art of sitting down. The monstrosity stood on two emaciated hairy legs that terminated in long-clawed talons, four-pronged like a bird’s. One oddly gnarled hand clutched a large, unlikely looking key. The artist must have been, at the very least, a Surrealist hophead suffering from acute delirium tremens. Beneath Surgat’s name I saw the startling inscription, “Drawne from the Life.”
Gavigan’s sarcasm was heavy. “That, I suppose, breaks the case! We hand that tintype to the papers, captioned ‘Wanted, Dead or Alive’ and wait for someone to phone in saying they saw him boarding a subway train at Times Square, or shouting ‘boo!’ at the children in Central Park. Maybe we’d better phone the Zoo in case he’s been turned in to Doc Ditmars. Hmmpf!”
Merlini, managing a straight face, replied, “We’ll hope not, Inspector. I doubt if Dr. Ditmars would give up an exhibit like that without a struggle. Even though you offered him a whole cageful of assorted bushmasters, vampire bats, and duck-billed basilisks.” Then turning his attention to the book again, he reflected aloud: “It would be nice to know about that missing page—and the rest of that invocation. If we can locate another copy of this book…Rosenbach maybe, or—”
“And I,” Gavigan said, underscoring each word, “don’t want to hear any more about it. Just one more mention of hobgoblins, and I’ll have someone’s scalp.”
Alfred LaClaire came in then. He stopped just inside the door and stood there woodenly, his hands in his pockets, his green eyes scowling. He saw Merlini, started slightly, and nodded.
Gavigan turned to him and went to work, sharp staccato questions streaming like ticker tape from his mouth. Quinn scratched busily in his notebook. LaClaire stated that on the previous evening he and his wife had done their usual three turns nightly at La Rumba, one of the village hot spots. Their routine was a twenty-minute one, and they appeared at 9:30, 11:30, and 1:30. He had left after the last show, at about two o’clock, going direct to Tony’s Place, a bar on Sullivan Street.
“Proprietor know you?” Gavigan asked.
“Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“Until four o’clock. Some damn fool put me in a taxi at that point and the fare home was three bucks.”
“A little bit hazy about then?” Gavigan suggested.
LaClaire nodded. “Some, yes. Too many stingers.”
“You didn’t notice the number of the cab or see the driver’s name, then, I suppose?”
“Hardly.”
“You haven’t mentioned your wife. Wasn’t she with you?”
“No, I left her at the club. Look, Inspector, was—was he killed last night?”
Gavigan said, “Maybe. Did Mrs. LaClaire go right home from the club?”
His pause was just a shade too long. He nodded slowly. “That’s where she said she was going.”
Gavigan closed in on that. “And where did she go?”
“She was in bed when I got home.”
“All right. You don’t know where she went. What do you
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