"It's a crime, Your Honor," said the young man with the dreamy eyes and paint-smeared sport-shirt. "The Council not only proposes tearing down this picturesque landmark, but would thereby destroy the home of our only local ghost." "Really, Mr. Masterson!" The mayor smiled to show he knew Jerry Masterson was only kidding, then brandished a State Highway Commission report recommending that the antiquated Waukeena Lighthouse be demolished. "Mr. Masterson, we respect your feelings as an artist, and are well aware of the local superstition regarding the ghost of Captain MacGreggor, but this building is over seventy years old and needs expensive repairs. The financial burden is too great for our metropolis of less than fifteen hundred souls. The State has disavowed responsibility, and—"
"Your Honor!"
"The chair recognizes Mr. Higgins."
"As president of the Historical Society, I wish to state we vigorously oppose the wrecking of this building. One by one, our landmarks have fallen. Are we to hand down to our children a community without pride of ancestry? Are we—?"
"Your Honor," bellowed another voice. "As a member of the Taxpayers League...."
For two hours, sentiment battled hotly with double-entry bookkeeping. Then the City Council expressed its deep regrets to the Historical Society—and unanimously accepted the bid of Sam Schultz Salvage Company. Mr. Schultz handed the Council his check for five hundred dollars and was authorized to begin wrecking immediately.
"First thing tomorrow morning," Mr. Schultz promised.
Tomorrow morning! As he walked into the spring night, toward the old, decaying house where he lived alone, Jerry Masterson felt sadness. His own difficulties had prepared him to admit life was geared to financial considerations. But things had come to a pretty pass when even a ghost was not safe from dollars and cents. "Poor Captain Wully," he said without realizing he spoke aloud.
"Aye, aye," said a voice. "Poor Wully MacGreggor. As a ghost in good standing, a dues-paying member of Asmodeus Local of the United Lighthouse Haunters of America, Wully never done nothin' to deserve this. Evicted! Got a smoke, matey?"
Jerry Masterson did a double-take. Out of reflex courtesy, he proffered a cigarette and was about to strike a match when his companion reached slightly to the left, where several coals glowed in mid-air. Selecting one, the stranger said, "Thank you, Junior. You can go now." He turned, lit Jerry's cigarette and his own.
"All right, joker," said Jerry. "Show me how you did it and I'll show you a couple of card tricks and a disappearing penny routine."
"Later," said the stranger. "Right now, matey, my sails is draggin' and I need spiritual reinforcement—liquid. And you're buying."
"There's a fifth of Scotch in my studio, but I'm not pouring for any phony tricksters. I've been saving it till I sold a canvas."
"Scotch," sighed the stranger ecstatically. "Shades of the Loch Ness Monster! Quit scratching, Gertrude."
"Gertrude?"
"My cat—she's black. A handsome beastie if you overlook a hole in her head. A twenty-two caliber hole. Gertrude, materialize for the nice man."
Nothing happened, and Jerry diplomatically sought to ease a situation that was rapidly becoming embarrassing. "Maybe she's bashful."
"Not Gertrude. Just temperamental. She could materialize if she wanted to. She doesn't want to. Now take Junior...."
"Junior?"
"He's the conscientious type. Tries too hard, poor boy."
"About that Scotch," said Jerry. "You don't think maybe a couple of cups of black coffee...."
The stranger's face registered horror—and trust betrayed. "For shame, laddie. To be insulted in my darkest hour! Me, Captain Wully MacGreggor!"
"Sure. You're Wully MacGreggor—and I'm Napoleon."
"Watch."
There was nothing to watch. The stranger had disappeared. A disembodied voice said, "Now about that Scotch? If Waukeena light is being torn down tomorrow, I'll be homeless. I've got a lot of haunting to do in the little time that's left. And here we stand, waggin' our jaws."
Jerry's first impulse was to run like hell. "But I don't believe in ghosts!" His voice sounded.
"Of course you do. If you didn't, you couldn't have seen me."
He'd heard of self-hypnosis—apparently the session with the Mayor had upset him. "All right, so you're Wully MacGreggor. Why pick on me?"
"Because I like you," said the ghost. "You said a kind word for me to the City Council and I'd like to do something nice for you."
"If you can't help yourself, I don't see how you're going to be much help to me, but what've I got to lose?" He was too numb to worry further. Ghosts, yet...!
Next morning, Jerry Masterson awoke with a hangover. He dimly remembered floating lights, red, yellow, blue and green. He remembered Captain Wully scaring a couple of lovers with noises the young lady described as "something like bagpipes in an echo chamber." And he seemed to remember that, toward the end of the evening, Gertrude had deigned to materialize—along with a headless black ox and a white stag.
He shook his head and reached for the aspirin. "As of now," he promised himself, "I'm on the wagon." He seemed to recall a snake too, a seven-headed snake with a gleaming carbuncle in the middle head. Permanently on the wagon! A scraping noise came from above. He listened. The noise occurred again. It seemed to emanate from the tower room on the third floor. He raced up the winding Victorian staircase, on up the narrow stairs to the attic, and stopped.
From behind the tower room door, came thin, eerie skirling of bagpipes.
"Hey, you in there," he called.
"Matey!" boomed Captain Wully's voice. "Come on in."
Captain Wully was seated on an old sea-chest, the bagpipes still tucked under his arm. "Hope my practicing didn't disturb you. I play second bagpipe in the banshee band."
"But the scraping noise...."
"My sea-chest. I had a little trouble getting you home by cockcrow, and I had to move the sea-chest on overtime. I want to say right now it was right decent of you to offer me a home on such short acquaintance. I appreciate it, and I promise to show my—"
"Look," said Jerry. "All this time I was being so big-hearted, did I also say I was going to have to sell the house for non-payment of taxes?"
"You didn't. If I'd a-known that, I'd put you wise to grabbing Celeste's carbuncle. It's good luck."
"It didn't bring you any luck."
"I'm not eligible. Employees, relatives etc."
"Why can't I get it now?"
"Too late. Celeste only materializes once every seven years. Those canvases you mentioned. For sale?"
"No bidders, and the critics all agree. Competent draftsmanship, highly finished technique—but carefully unimaginative, middle-class."
"The pictures—where are they now?"
"Downstairs. I was going to crate them today, and send them to the Art Festival at Northport, but I've got the shakes too bad."
Captain Wully pushed back the tam on his head, scratched his balding dome. "I've got it. You catch yourself a nap, matey. I'll crate the pictures for you and batten down the hatches all nice an' ship-shape."
Jerry Masterson, when he draped himself over the bumpy carvings on the studio love seat, intended to take only a quick forty winks. But the morning was well spent when he awakened, stiff and cramped. Two sturdy crates stood near the door and, from the skylight end of the studio, wafted a rich fragrance of latakia. Captain Wully drew deeply on a Scotch briar filled with Jerry's private blend of tobacco, waved his pipe toward the easel and said, "A right bonnie lass, matey. Your betrothed?"
Jerry shook his head dolefully. "Her family are Covered Wagon. You've no idea what that means in a small town like this. My uncle lived here fifteen years and was still a 'newcomer' when he died and left me the house. I've been here two years, but that's a Johnny-come-lately to the Higginses. Her name's Heather, and I doubt if she knows I'm alive."
Captain Wully twirled his mustache, which curled luxuriantly at either end and was of an improbable shade Jerry classified as Hunter's Pink. So was his beard. "What did you say her name was?"
"Heather Higgins."
"You sighed the second time you said it, too. I just wanted to be sure."
Jerry crossed to the unfinished canvas. "Hair like sunshine on slightly oxidized copper. Eyes blue like the sea where it meets the horizon on a summer day."
"Gertrude!" yelled Captain Wully.
From the turbulence of the air current which marked Gertrude's passing, Jerry decided the invisible cat had been in a hurry.
"And who are you, and what are you doing here?" Captain Wully yelled at a second slipstream.
Distinctly audible was a high pitched caterwauling. In addition, there was a sound that made Jerry's curly hair crawl—the baying of a wolf?
"I better look into this," Captain Wully muttered and dashed outside. As he reached the doorway, his figure melted into transparency, then into air.
Jerry loaded the crated paintings into his car and took them to the express office. They wouldn't sell—they never did. But he couldn't afford to pass up the chance that they might.
When he returned home, there was no sign of Captain Wully, only a few paper candy wrappers on the floor. He started to pick them up, but remembered he wanted to imprison a highlight on Heather Higgins's nose and forgot the papers.
Someone had been into his paints. A tube of Payne's gray had been pressed dry. The cap was off the gamboge, and a new tube of bice green had been squeezed in the middle. Nor had the intruder bothered to scrape the palette, which gleamed with puddles of color.
A dab of ivory, the hint of rose madder and a suspicion of cadmium yellow fused under his brush tip. Creative fury struck him, and he failed to notice a figure that paused at the outside front gate. The figure stooped, picked up something, then carefully scanned the inside walkway. Here, too, she picked up something. She stooped momentarily on the front porch, and again in the hallway.
Then Heather Higgins stood in the studio. Her gaze swept the floor, and she bent over to pick up a candy wrapper.
"You don't have to do that," Jerry said. "I was getting around to it—eventually."
She whirled to face him. Her eyes turned from azure to ultramarine. "You might tell me what's going on around here!"
"Suppose you tell me. I'm still trying to catch up with it myself."
"Thief!"
"Thief?"
"Stealing Scotch whiskey and my new plaid skirt! But you made a mistake on the rum butter toffee. I trailed the wrappers."
The Scotch whiskey and rum toffee Jerry could see a reason for—but not the plaid skirt. "So help me, I'm innocent."
"So you're innocent!" She dashed to a corner behind the easel and snatched a plaid skirt from the floor.
"You'll just have to believe me. I had nothing to do with it."
"Oh no?"
"Look at me. Do I look like a criminal?"
As she looked her expression softened slightly, but she said, "I always picked the wrong picture in psychology tests. It's you innocent looking fellows that always turn out to be the crooks."
Jerry tried his best to look desperate. The result was too much for Heather Higgins, who laughed.
"Hold it," Jerry said. "I want to catch your eyes."
He grabbed his brush and made several quick strokes on the canvas.
"Why," she said, "it looks like me—a little. But I'm not that pretty."
"You are. And it'd look more like you if I didn't have to do it from memory."
And that was how Heather Higgins reluctantly happened to promise Jerry Masterson she'd return next morning for a sitting. She left, and Jerry was eating dinner when Captain Wully walked in to the whistled measures of Comin' Through the Rye.
"Rye!" said Jerry. "You? Rye?"
"I borrowed her old man's Scotch, if that's what you're gettin' at. And if you think I enjoyed eatin' all that candy just to leave a trail—I hope I don't see another piece of candy for three hundred years."
"Just to satisfy my curiosity," Jerry pleaded, "where does the plaid skirt come in?"
"The MacGreggor tartan? I needed a kilt."
"All of a sudden you need a kilt. Why?"
"It's a long story. But first—" he reached into a cupboard and produced Jerry's safety razor—"do you mind if I borrow this? And where do you keep the scissors?"
It took fifteen minutes to locate the scissors.
"We were discussing a kilt," Jerry prompted.
"If a body kiss a body, need a body cry," sang Captain Wully's baritone.
But, eventually, Captain Wully and the scissors were seated at the table behind a round magnifying mirror. "It begins with Gertrude. You remember how she scooted through the studio this afternoon with a werewolf after her?"
"How stupid of me not to realize."
"I felt Gertrude needed help. I caught up with the werewolf and gave him a piece of my mind. 'Pretty small potatoes,' I says, 'when a werewolf chases cats. You must be pretty second-rate to have fallen so low. A regular lamb in wolf's clothing.' 'I'll have you know,' he says, 'I'm pretty hot stuff. Related to Dracula on my mammy's side, and to Frankenstein on my pappy's.'"
The scissors snipped rapidly, and bits of pink mustache littered the unswept floor.
"'A renegade,' I says. 'Your family must be awfully proud of you. Chasing cats!' Ouch—" as the scissors slipped. "I says, 'Where do you live?' And he says, 'Down the road a piece. I'm lapdog for an Indian princess.' 'I think,' I says, usin' my head real quick like, 'I better see you home a............