high above her. “It’s that one in the brown leather binding, Smitty. Get it, will you?”
“Sure.” He grabbed the thick, ancient book. “Hey, this is funny-feeling leather.”
“Legend has it that several covers for this particular book were made of human skin.”
“Yeah?” He handed the fat book gingerly over to the girl.
Nellie plumped down on a chair, opened the book, and began to rapidly leaf through it. “Let’s see . . . Egypt . . . Ethlinn . . . Evocations . . . Here we go. Exorcism. Now, we don’t want to command the devil or get a demon to work for us. Ho, this is our section. ‘How to cast out an evil spirit.’ ” She read on for a few minutes, nodding to herself. “Okay, I’ve got what we have to do all memorized. We’re going to need a few props.” She told the two men what they had to gather together for her.
“Let’s hope the guy who wrote that thing knew his apples,” said Smitty. “This better work!”
“It’ll work.” As the men scattered she went to another shelf and drew out the scrapbook she’d been looking at earlier.
“This little gizmo is getting a real workout,” remarked Smitty. He was holding his tracking device in his palm. It was sniffing, humming.
They’d picked up Fanny Fiddler’s trail beneath the window of the wardrobe room. The sniffer was leading them into the rainswept night forest.
O’Malley was lugging a black satchel and carrying a folded black umbrella under his arm. “You know what I keep thinking,” he told the other two. “This would make terrific publicity. ‘Pix director scares off real spooks,’ and all sorts of stuff like that. It’d make Demon Island, a surefire box-office hit. And I’m not going to be able to say a word about it.”
“Geeze,” said the giant. “Here’s this poor Fanny dame running around with a murdering ghost inside her and you’re thinking about—”
“You don’t understand show business,” said Nellie.
O’Malley said, “I didn’t say I was going to try to get any publicity from this business. I said it was too bad I was too nice a guy to take advantage of Fanny’s troubles. Look, Hollywood makes a lot of pictures every year. And if you don’t have Van Johnson or Lana Turner in your film . . . well, then you need something else. And a sensational publicity gimmick is the best something else you can have. ‘Real ghost haunts horror flicker.’ Boy . . .”
“I thought crime fighting was about as strange a profession as a guy could have,” said Smitty. “Now I’m starting—”
“Pay attention to your gadget,” urged Nellie. “It’s making a new noise.”
“Hey! Yeah, we’re getting close to her.”
“We’re also,” observed O’Malley, “getting near the cliffs. So let’s go easy. I don’t want anybody to fall down onto the rocks.”
In a whisper Nellie said, “There she is!”
The dark-haired girl was visible now among the trees. Rain was beating down on her, wind tossing her hair. She did not heed it. She was facing away from them, watching the dark, foaming sea below. The trio edged nearer.
She sensed their approach and turned toward them. “Do not come any closer,” she warned. The voice was not Fanny Fiddler’s.
“Geeze,” muttered Smitty, “it is a spook talking!”
Nellie nudged O’Malley. “Get the candle going.”
“Oh, yeah.” The director set down the satchel and opened it. He remembered the umbrella, and unfurled it before taking a fruit jar with a fat candle in it from within. “Smitty, can you put a hand between this and the wind?”
“Sure thing.” He obliged and O’Malley, using a pack of souvenir matches from the Trocadero, got the candle lit. The glass sheltered the flame from the wind once the match had taken hold.
“I will throw this girl over the cliff,” cried the voice of Nita DelMar, “if you do not let me have her!”
From under her coat Nellie took the picture she’d torn from the scrapbook. “This is your picture,
“Sure.” He grabbed the thick, ancient book. “Hey, this is funny-feeling leather.”
“Legend has it that several covers for this particular book were made of human skin.”
“Yeah?” He handed the fat book gingerly over to the girl.
Nellie plumped down on a chair, opened the book, and began to rapidly leaf through it. “Let’s see . . . Egypt . . . Ethlinn . . . Evocations . . . Here we go. Exorcism. Now, we don’t want to command the devil or get a demon to work for us. Ho, this is our section. ‘How to cast out an evil spirit.’ ” She read on for a few minutes, nodding to herself. “Okay, I’ve got what we have to do all memorized. We’re going to need a few props.” She told the two men what they had to gather together for her.
“Let’s hope the guy who wrote that thing knew his apples,” said Smitty. “This better work!”
“It’ll work.” As the men scattered she went to another shelf and drew out the scrapbook she’d been looking at earlier.
“This little gizmo is getting a real workout,” remarked Smitty. He was holding his tracking device in his palm. It was sniffing, humming.
They’d picked up Fanny Fiddler’s trail beneath the window of the wardrobe room. The sniffer was leading them into the rainswept night forest.
O’Malley was lugging a black satchel and carrying a folded black umbrella under his arm. “You know what I keep thinking,” he told the other two. “This would make terrific publicity. ‘Pix director scares off real spooks,’ and all sorts of stuff like that. It’d make Demon Island, a surefire box-office hit. And I’m not going to be able to say a word about it.”
“Geeze,” said the giant. “Here’s this poor Fanny dame running around with a murdering ghost inside her and you’re thinking about—”
“You don’t understand show business,” said Nellie.
O’Malley said, “I didn’t say I was going to try to get any publicity from this business. I said it was too bad I was too nice a guy to take advantage of Fanny’s troubles. Look, Hollywood makes a lot of pictures every year. And if you don’t have Van Johnson or Lana Turner in your film . . . well, then you need something else. And a sensational publicity gimmick is the best something else you can have. ‘Real ghost haunts horror flicker.’ Boy . . .”
“I thought crime fighting was about as strange a profession as a guy could have,” said Smitty. “Now I’m starting—”
“Pay attention to your gadget,” urged Nellie. “It’s making a new noise.”
“Hey! Yeah, we’re getting close to her.”
“We’re also,” observed O’Malley, “getting near the cliffs. So let’s go easy. I don’t want anybody to fall down onto the rocks.”
In a whisper Nellie said, “There she is!”
The dark-haired girl was visible now among the trees. Rain was beating down on her, wind tossing her hair. She did not heed it. She was facing away from them, watching the dark, foaming sea below. The trio edged nearer.
She sensed their approach and turned toward them. “Do not come any closer,” she warned. The voice was not Fanny Fiddler’s.
“Geeze,” muttered Smitty, “it is a spook talking!”
Nellie nudged O’Malley. “Get the candle going.”
“Oh, yeah.” The director set down the satchel and opened it. He remembered the umbrella, and unfurled it before taking a fruit jar with a fat candle in it from within. “Smitty, can you put a hand between this and the wind?”
“Sure thing.” He obliged and O’Malley, using a pack of souvenir matches from the Trocadero, got the candle lit. The glass sheltered the flame from the wind once the match had taken hold.
“I will throw this girl over the cliff,” cried the voice of Nita DelMar, “if you do not let me have her!”
From under her coat Nellie took the picture she’d torn from the scrapbook. “This is your picture,
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