Compliments Of The Author Page 4

  Donn nodded. "You weren't long," he said. "Ready to call me now?"

  Tracy hurriedly closed the door behind him. The book had not failed him, then. There were obviously two sides to every problem-and the demons had not expected Tracy to think of the logical solution. Or, rather, the illogical one.

  His experiences in the hinterland had not been measured by earthly time, either. Apparently he had left the room for only a minute or so. At least, the chips were in the pot, and Donn was holding his cards close to his chest, grinning encouragingly.

  "Come on," he said impatiently. "Let's get going."

  Tracy still held the book in one hand, and a glance at it, as he slid the volume in his pocket, told him that Page 12 was still trumps. He took a deep breath and sat down opposite Donn. Hell, he'd play the game to the limit now. He had no doubt at all but that Barney Donn, like Amduscias, was bluffing.

  "I'm raising," he said. "But you'll have to take a check."

  "Sure," Donn nodded. His eyes widened at sight of the amount. "Wait a minute, Tracy. This game's for cash. Checks are O.K.-if you've got the money to cover them."

  "I've got it," Tracy lied. "I'm in the chips, Barney. Didn't I tell you?"

  "Hm-m-m. It'll be unfortunate if you can't pay."

  Tracy said, "The hell with it," and took more of the blue chips. Hatton's eyes widened. This was big money.

  Donn raised.

  Tracy did the same.

  Donn said, "Mind taking my IOU?"

  "Not a bit."

  The stakes mounted till Hatton got dizzy. In the end, Tracy called and Donn laid down. The reporter had two kings and three queens. Donn had a royal flush-almost. He had drawn to fill the flush, but hadn't made it.

  He had been bluffing.

  Tracy said, "You're lucky at stud, Barney, but I guess draw poker's my game."

  Donn grinned. "I like excitement. Give me a pen, somebody." He wrote a check. "Money's easy for me to make. So I figure I have to pay out to make it come in. Here you are, Sam."

  "Thanks." Tracy took the check and collected his own scrip. He shook hands with Donn and led the dazed Hatton from the room.

  In the lobby the photographer woke up sufficiently to say, "Hey! I forgot to snap the pictures."

  "Let it wait," Tracy advised. "I want to get to the bank before it closes."

  "Yeah. I should think so. How much did you take Donn for?"

  "Not quite enough," Tracy said, scowling. The check was in five figures, but what the hell! Five figures, with the magic book in his possession, were peanuts. He had muffled a chance by aiming too low. And now there were only six chances left.

  Maybe only five! Those two crises might have counted individually. Damn again. If he used up all his chances, and Meg still survived, it would be just too bad. Somehow, he had to get rid of the familiar. But how?

  How could he maneuver her into a situation where the book would tell him how to destroy Meg? The enchanted volume told him only how to protect himself.

  Ergo-a situation where only Meg's destruction would save his own life. That was what was needed.

  "Just like that," Tracy grunted, his long strides carrying him toward the bank. Halfway there he changed his mind and hailed a taxi. "Sorry, Hatton. I thought of something important. See you later."

  "Sure." The photographer stood on the curb, looking after the cab. "What a man! Maybe he don't care about money-I dunno. I only wish I had my pink little paws on some of that dough!"

  Tracy went to his broker's office, asked astute questions, and watched the ticker. He was playing for high stakes, and was willing, now, to take somewhat more than a gambler's risk. He put his entire fortune on AGM Consolidated, though he had to argue briefly with the broker.

  "Mr. Tracy! AGM? It's-Look! Four points while we've been talking. The bottom's dropping out of it."

  "Buy it, please. All you can. On margin."

  "Margin? Mr. Tracy-Look, have you got some inside tip?"

  "Buy it, please."

  "But-look at that ticker!"

  "Go ahead and buy it."

  "Well, all right. It's your funeral."

  "Right," Tracy said, with every appearance of satisfaction. "It's my funeral. Looks like I'll be flat broke in a day or so."

  "I'll be asking you for more margin by morning."

  Tracy retired and watched AGM drop steadily. It was, as he well knew, one of the most worthless stocks in existence, and the bottom had dropped out of it only a day or so after the company's formation. He was on a toboggan rushing rapidly down to pauperism.

  He took the book from his pocket and stared at it. There was a new numeral on the cover. That meant a new crisis, which he himself had precipitated. Swell!

  Page 2 said: "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."

  Tracy's eyes widened. He looked down at the deep-napped claret carpet. Five stories down with the substrata of Los Angeles, oil? Here?

  Impossible. In the Kettleman Hills, out at San Pedro-anywhere but in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There couldn't be oil in this ground. If, by any fantastic chance, there was, it was manifestly useless to Tracy. He couldn't buy the land and sink a well.

  But the book said, "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."

  Tracy stood up hesitantly. He nodded at the broker and went out to the elevator. A small bribe enabled him to visit the basement, which was of no help whatsoever. The janitor, in answer to guarded questions, said that the Hill Street subway ran under the building.

  Tracy came out and stood in the lobby, chewing his lip, conscious that his money was rapidly being dissipated in the worthless AGM Consolidated. The book couldn't be wrong. It gave the answer to every human problem.

  His eyes fell on the building directory. His broker's office was 501.

  "Beneath your feet." Oh-oh! The book might be very literal indeed. What was in Office 401?

  A photographic supply company-but 301 gave the right answer. Pan-Argyle Oil, Ltd.

  Tracy paused long enough to check 201 and 101, but his original guess had been accurate. He didn't wait for the elevator. He ran up the stairs and burst gasping into the broker's office.

  "Mr. Tracy!" the man greeted him. "I'm still buying, but this is crazy. You'd better get out while the getting's good."

  "I will-but tell me just one thing. Is Pan-Argyle Oil on the board?"

  "Uh-yes. Nothing bid, three asked. But that's as bad as AGM. Pan-Argyle's a cheap wildcat outfit-"

  "Never mind," Tracy snapped. "Sell AGM and buy all the Pan-Argyle you can get your hands on. Margin!"

  The broker threw up his hands and reached for the telephone. Tracy examined the book. The numeral was gone.

  And that left four chances. Maybe five-five at most. He'd play safe. Say, four chances to outwit Meg and get rid of her permanently. Then-if this oil deal worked out as he expected-he could sit back and relax.

  He headed for a bar and toasted himself silently. Then he toasted the book. A handy little volume! If Napoleon had possessed it, there'd never have been a Waterloo-provided the chances had been used wisely. The point was, apparently, to play for big stakes.

  Tracy grinned. The next step-Meg. As for security, what was he worrying about? With sufficient money, he'd have security enough. As much as any man could. The powers of the book were limited, obviously; they couldn't change a man into a god. Only the gods were completely happy-if, indeed, they were.

  But a fortune would be enough. Perhaps he'd go to South America-Buenos Aires, or Rio. Travel was restricted, in these days. Necessarily. Just the same, he could enjoy himself there, and there would be no difficulty with the law, in case his blackmailing proclivities were ever raked up. Extradition is difficult when a man has enough money.

  A shadow flashed past his eyes, and he turned in time to see the tail of a cat vanish out the door. He caught his breath and grinned. Nerves.

  But, unmistakably, the warmth of the book made itself felt against his side.

  Very slowly Tracy took it out.


  Page 44.

  "Poison?"

  Tracy looked thoughtfully at the whiskey sour before him. He beckoned to the bartender.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Was there a cat in here a minute ago?"

  "A cat? I didn't see any-no, sir."

  A little man sitting near Tracy turned his head. "I saw it. It came over and jumped up on the bar. Sniffed at your drink, but it didn't touch it. Guess cats don't like whiskey." He giggled.

  "What sort of cat was it?" Tracy asked.

  The little man looked at him oddly. "Ordinary sort of cat. Big fella. White feet, looked like. What of it?"

  "Nothing." Tracy turned back to his drink and sniffed it. There was an unmistakable bitter-almonds odor. Prussic acid, the conventional poison.

  Tracy left the bar, his face rather white. Three chances. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. But ten, in the beginning, had seemed an abundance.

  There was no sign of Meg.

  He didn't bother to go back to the Journal, though he phoned to get a report on Pan-Argyle. He was not surprised to learn that a new field had suddenly been brought in somewhere in Texas. It looked big, plenty big. He had got in just under the wire.

  He phoned his broker, and the news was eminently satisfying. Buying on margin had its advantages. As a result, Tracy was already a rich man.

  "It may peter out, though," the broker said. "Shall I hang on?"

  "It won't peter out." Tracy's voice was confident. "Keep buying, if there's any stock left floating around."

  "There isn't. But you've got almost a controlling share."

  "Good." Tracy hung up and considered. He'd have to move fast now.

  Three chances.

  He cheered himself up by buying a car from an acquaintance who had been pressed for money lately; and presently was tooling the big sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, squinting against the sunset. The next step was to find Meg and maneuver himself into a very dangerous position, where only the familiar's destruction could save him.

  Quite suddenly Tracy saw the way.

  It would take two chances, but that would still leave one for emergencies. And it would get rid of Meg permanently.

  He turned on La Brea and headed for Laurel Canyon. It was necessary to get in touch with the familiar. Under the circumstances, time counted. No more of the irreplaceable pages must be used up now. Not until the final test.

  Tracy grinned sardonically. He had had ten chances; the result was money. Well, the aphorism about spilt milk was consoling, after a fashion. He swung into Sunset, and thence to Laurel Canyon Road.

  After that he went cautiously. He was hoping that Gwinn's body had not yet been discovered, and that he could get in contact with Meg at the magician's house. It was a slim chance, but he could think of no other.

  Luck was with him. The house loomed dark and silent. Letters stuck out of the metal mailbox at the curb. The rising wind caught one and fluttered it away into the twilight.

  Instinctively Tracy's eyes sought the cat, but it was nowhere in evidence. He parked the sedan in the roadway behind the house, hidden by dwarf trees and underbrush. Then he went back and climbed the steps, his heart beating faster than normal.

  The door was closed but unlocked. He pushed it open and entered.

  The room was slightly changed. A pentagram was traced on the floor, and the remnants of several oil lamps were broken shards. Oil had soaked into the carpet, and the smell was strong in Tracy's nostrils. The body of Gwinn sat motionless behind the table.

  "Meg!" Tracy said softly.

  The cat came out of the shadows, green eyes gleaming.

  "Yes?"

  "I-I wanted to talk to you."

  Meg sat down, waving her tail. "Talk away. But you have used seven pages of the book already, you know."

  "Then Barney Donn and the demons counted separately."

  "Yes. You have three pages left."

  Tracy said, standing motionless in the twilit room, horribly conscious of Gwinn's corpse:

  "Will you take a sporting chance?"

  "Perhaps. What is it?"

  "I'll gamble with you. My life as the stake. If I win, you-call it off. If I lose, I'll destroy the book."

  Meg waved her tail. "I'm no fool. If we gamble, and you're in danger, the book will help you."

  "Then I won't use it," Tracy said, his voice a little unsteady. "Here's the proposition. We'll guess at a card's suit. Two guesses each. If I lose, I-I'll destroy the book. Only I make one stipulation."

  "What?"

  "I want twelve hours to set my affairs in order. Twelve hours from now, if I lose, I'll throw the book in the fire at my apartment and wait for you."

  Meg looked at the man inscrutably. "And you won't use the book to help you win?"

  "Right."

  "I agree, the cat said. You'll find cards on that shelf." It waved a white-mittened paw.

  Tracy got the cards and shuffled them expertly. He spread them out on the carpet and looked at Meg. "Will you draw? Or shall I?"

  "Draw," the familiar murmured. Tracy obeyed, but did not turn the card over. He laid it face down on the oil-soaked carpet.

  "I choose-"

  His side felt warm. Instinctively he drew out the book. On the front cover two numerals were black against the luminous white disk:

  33

  "Don't open it," Meg said, "or the deal's off."

  For answer, Tracy placed the book at his side, unopened. His voice shaking, he whispered, "Hearts and spades."

  "All right." The cat flipped the card over with a deft paw. It was the jack of clubs.

  The numeral on the book's cover vanished abruptly.

  Meg flicked out a lazy pink tongue. "Twelve hours, then, Tracy. I'll be waiting as patiently as possible."

  "Yeah." Tracy was looking at the book on the floor beside him. "Twelve hours," he repeated softly. "Then I'll destroy-this and you'll kill me, I suppose."

  "Yes," the cat said.

  A new numeral appeared in the white oval: 9. Tracy said, "I'll be getting on," and picked up the book. He thumbed it idly.

  Page 9 said, "Start a fire."

  Tracy took out a cigarette and lit it. The flaming match he tossed down to the oil-soaked carpet. And-Fire blazed up, reflecting crimson and green in Meg's eyes as she bounded up, hissing. The feline side was in the ascendant now. Tail erect, back arched, she leaped to the table, spitting and snarling.

  Tracy jumped back to the door. The fire was spreading. He slid the book into his pocket and tossed the cigarette into a dark corner of the room. The red spark flashed out into flame.

  "Like it, Meg?" he whispered above the increasing crackle and roar. "I don't think you do. Because it's the only thing that'll save my life-and I'm pretty sure that means your death."

  The cat sprang to Gwinn's shoulder, glaring at Tracy. Its hissing became articulate. "Not my death-but you've won! My term on earth ends when my warlock's body is destroyed. I won't survive him."

  "I remember. You told me that once before, but I didn't guess the right answer. Sorry, Meg!"

  "My powers are waning already, or you'd die now. Yes, you've won. I'll see you in Hell."

  "Not for a while," Tracy grinned, opening the door. The draft drew a gust of flames toward him, and he backed off hurriedly. "I still have one page in the book left, and that'll keep me alive for a while-especially with you out of the way, and a fortune at my finger tips. It's just a matter of logic, Meg. Every human action can be boiled down to a basic equation"-he jumped back again-"and the only trick is to learn how to use the book. If Napoleon had owned it, he'd have conquered the world."

  Fire was crawling toward the cat, yet she did not move from Gwinn's shoulder. She spat at Tracy. "Napoleon did own it," she snarled. Then the flames drove Tracy out of the house. Laughing quietly, he raced down the steps and around to where he had left his car. He had won-tricked both Meg and the book neatly by maneuvering himself into a position where only the familiar's death would save his own l
ife. And there was still one page left.

  A window crackled and broke. Fire poured out from it. Instantly the dry brush caught. Tracy stopped short, a dozen feet from his car. He gave back, realizing instantly that this way of escape was blocked.

  It didn't matter. He was invulnerable, as long as he had the book-as long as there was one chance left. He turned and ran for the road, wind gusting coldly against his sweating cheeks.

  It was, perhaps, a mile down to Laurel Canyon, where he could get a lift. But it was all downhill, and he was in good condition. Even though the wind was rising, he could make it easily. And, at worst, the book would save him.

  So Tracy ran down the road, until, ten minutes later, he stopped at sight of a trail of flame rushing down a gully in his path.

  He took the first branch that forked, and cut down into another canyon. It was past sunset now, but the hills had become crawling towers of scarlet light. A siren screamed in the distance.

  Tracy went on. Once he took out the book and looked at it, but there were no numerals on the cover. He wasn't in serious danger yet.

  A thought of panic struck cold into his mind. Perhaps he had, somehow, used up the ten chances! But no-that was impossible. He had kept careful count. When an emergency arose, the book would save him.

  The increasing fury of the brush fire drove Tracy down the canyon, until at last he was halted by another comb of flames racing up toward him. He was-apparently-trapped. Standing hatless and panting, he jerked out the book again, and this time a tiny moan of relief escaped him. There was no mistake; the tenth chance lay in his hand, ready to solve his problem. Page 50.

  Tracy opened the book to Page 50. It was easy to read the message, in the bloody light of the fire. It was rather horribly easy to read the message; its clarity had a touch of inhuman malice about it. Tracy understood then, of course, about Napoleon, and about what Gwinn had seen in the book before his death; and he also realized how the unknown author had managed to boil all human crises down to fifty patterns. Forty-nine of them covered forty-nine eventualities, and told the logical solution. The fiftieth covered everything else, and was equally logical.