Miss Shumway Waves A Wand

“I’ll cut the fat off,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about a little thing like that, or I’ve got a steak. Howjer like that?”

“Mmm,” Whisky said. “Let’s go find it. That sounds like something.”

They went off into the kitchen.

“The airs and graces that dog gives himself kills me,” I said. “Steak for breakfast! He’ll get too fat.”

“Too fat for what?” Sam asked, putting his head round the door. “You be careful what you’re saying. You ain’t no hour-glass yourself.”

“From where I’m standing,” Whisky added, pushing his snout round the door, “that bulge in your waist line looks like a six-course lunch the waiter forgot, to take out of the casserole.”

“Aw, beat it, you two,” I said grinning. “My waist line’s all right. Well, I’ll get over to the Recorder. So long, Doc.”

Ansell waved, “So long,” he said.

I thought I’d say hello and good-bye to Myra so I tapped on her door.

“Come in,” she called.

I pushed the door open and walked in. I didn’t sea her in bed and I looked round the room blankly.

“Hello there,” I said, “where’ve you gone?”

“Good morning, Ross,” Myra said, and patted me lightly on my head.

She was floating near the ceiling, a book in her hand and a cigarette between her lips.

“Holy Moses!” I said, starting back. “Must you do that?”

“Why not?” she said, “Haven’t you heard the saying ‘I’m walking on air’? Well, I’m lying on it. It’s very comfortable and restful.”

She floated slowly down until her face was level with mine then she put her arm round my neck and lowered her feet to the ground. She stood with difficulty.

“I’m feeling very light, this morning,” she said, “As light as a thistledown.”

I looked at her thoughtfully, “Apart from that,” I said, “How do you feel?”

“Oh, all right,” her eyes clouded, “you were awfully drunk last night. I’m still a little angry with you.”

I wasn’t sure but this seemed the new Myra again. “I wasn’t so bad,” I said, “tell me, what happened? You know what I mean.”

She went over and sat on the bed, “I’m scared,” she said, “I dreamed things again. I dreamed that someone came into this room and got into my body. Then you woke me up. Weren’t some clothes on that chair when you came in, or did I dream it?”

“There were,” I said, looking at her uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

“Because they’re not here now,” she returned, “Oh, Ross, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I said, sure now that Doc Ansell was right. There were two of them. It seemed incredible, but everything pointed to it. “You’re not to worry. Look, I’ve got to go out. Maybe we might lunch together.”

Her face brightened. “Lovely,” she said, “what time and where?”

I looked at the clock. It was already late. “Meet me at Manerta’s in a couple of hours and we’ll talk.”

“All right,” she said. “But, do you think it’ll do any good?”

“I don’t know, but there are things I want to discuss with you.” I turned to the door, “Don’t worry, and leave Whisky home, will you? I want you to myself.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, “but, he won’t be pleased.”

“And I couldn’t care less,” I said and left her.

Chapter ELEVEN

THE doorman at the entrance of the Recorder Offices seemed embarrassed when he saw me.

“Hullo there, Murphy,” I said wondering what was biting him. “It’s good to see your ugly mug again. How’s tricks? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I guess that’s right,” he said, shuffling his feet like he was standing on a boiler plate of an overworked tug-boat, “you wouldn’t be coming in here, would you, Mr. Millan?”

“Yep,” I said cheerfully. “That’s the idea. I’m one of those big-minded guys. I’m not afraid of catching anything in this joint although it ought to have been fumigated years ago.”

He laughed like a very sad man, “Well, Mr. Millan,” he said, “you know how it is,” and he shuffled his feet some more.

It occurred to me suddenly that he wasn’t going to let me in. “What’s cookin’, Murphy?” I said sharply, “has someone died in there or something?”

“Well, no, Mr. Millan, but Mr. Maddox has given instructions that he don’t want you in the office. We all feel pretty sore about it, but that’s the way it is.”

“Maddox!” I said. “Well, how do you like that?” I pushed my hat to the back of my head and looked at Murphy more in anger than in sorrow. “Well, don’t let it get you down. You’re only doing your job. Look, I want a word with Dowdy. Will you get hold of him and tell him to come over to Joe’s?”

“You bet, Mr. Millan,” Murphy said, brightening up. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him right away.” I went over to Joe’s poolroom, behind the Recorder’s Office end I felt sore. I’d worked for this sheet for almost ten years and it was like my second home. It was like being one of the orphans in the storm.

McCue of the Telegram was the only guy in Joe’s. He was sitting at the bar on a high stool thumbing through a telephone book when I blew in.

Both he and the barman stared at me as if I was something out of a zoo.

“Hey, Mac,” I said with a grin, “isn’t it your bed-time?”