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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Fantastic Adventures, May 1947
with "When the Spirit Moves Me"
Willowby Jones had moving trouble. It seemed that the
apartment he
had rented already had an occupant. But the occupant
was dead.
From out of nowhere, it seemed, an arm and a fist shot out and hit his jaw...
WILLOWBY JONES hesitated before the battered, glass-paneled door. He adjusted the brown tie, smoothed his coat lapels and cleared his throat. Applying his finger lightly to the door-bell, he listened to the resulting sound in the hall. He waited for several minutes and decided that another ring might not be too many.
Evidently his first summons had been heard. Before he could touch the button again the door opened a crack and a wrinkled, worn face peeked out at him, The old lady had stern eyes that swept swiftly over Willowby's slight form. Then she threw the door open wide and motioned him inside.
"You'd he the young man to see about the apartment?"
Willowby wasn't favorably impressed with what he saw, but with the housing shortage so acute, he couldn't afford to be choosy. He mumbled a confirmation to her question and followed her into the musty hall.
"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. ——?" the old lady queried with friendly eyes.
Willowby mumbled: "Willowby Jones, mam."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Jones. I'm so glad to see you. It's been so long since I've had a nice young man in the house. Ever since Homer died I've been so lonely."
She kept on talking as she led Willowby to the apartment for rent. But Jones wasn't interested in what she had to say, mainly about Homer and what a nice young man he had been. Jones wanted a flat, if he had to listen to get one, he would listen.
The flat wasn't much to look at, barren floor space and antiquated lighting fixtures, but it had a roof over it and that was something. As soon as he could, Jones mentioned rent, and the old lady shrugged.
"I'll want fifty dollars a month?"
Jones breathed a sigh. It was a lot cheaper than he had expected.
"That'll be just fine, Mrs. ——"
"Dillwiddy... just Mrs. Dillwiddy."
Willowby nodded and handed over a month's rent.
"You—aren't the type of young man who has wild parties, are you?" Mrs. Dillwiddy asked.
"Oh dear no!" Willowby thought of the huge selection of apartments he had visited just after they had been rented. "I'm sure we'll get along very nicely."
Mrs. Dillwiddy smiled uncertainly.
"I'm only hoping that Homer won't object," she murmured. "Homer is so headstrong at times."
Willowby felt little electric sparks shooting up and down his neck. He gulped, and his adam's-apple quivered upward and settled back slowly. "Homer?"
Mrs. Dillwiddy nodded, smiling brightly.
"Homer is so dissatisfied with his present surroundings that he returns occasionally to make sure I'm all right. I'm sure you won't mind him."
Willowby felt suddenly as though the long flight of steps that led to the sidewalk was wavering under him. He was dizzy and his throat felt dry.
"Oh no," he said, "I—that is—we'll get along all right."
He held the rail with both hands and started downward. Behind him he heard the door close as Mrs. Dillwiddy retired to the dimly lighted hall.
Willowby Jones would he very glad when a person could find a place to live where ghosts didn't return to check up on living conditions.
MR. FOX of the Fox & Laird Advertising Agency met Willowby Jones as he came into the office on Monday morning. Mr. Fox could say the nicest things in the most sarcastic manner.
"I hope you've finally found a nice place, Jones," his comment was tinged with just the tiniest touch of sarcasm. "It seems to me that most of our employees are spending half their time finding apartments, and the remainder sleeping in them."
Willowby had taken Friday off.
In years past, one day away from the office might have cost him his job. Since Philbert Useless Quinby came into Willowby's life, Jones' prestige was slightly higher. He occasionally exercised the prestige.
"I'm well taken care of, thank you," he said, "If you'll come into my office. I'll go over the Barbarous Blond account with you."
Mr. Fox stiffened. Willowby's new-found self respect was a thorn in his side. The agency was fast becoming too small for both Mr. Fox and Mr. Jones.
"Sorry," Fox sniffed. "You'll just have to carry on. I haven't the time."
He turned and charged into his private office. Willowby, a ghost of a smile on his peaked face, headed immediately for his own office. He stopped on the way to lean over Bernice Adams and plant a quick kiss on her cheek.
Everything might have gone smoothly enough, had it not been for the Never-A-Care-Insurance Company and Mr. Blackhead. Mr. Blackhead was a cadaverous, anaemic individual who had been after Fox & Laird for a series of "This Might Happen to You" magazine layouts. Mr. Blackhead was in conference with Mr. Fox until noon. As Willowby left for lunch, Mr. Fox poked an unpleasant puss out of his door and requested Jones' presence at once.
Willowby entered what the employees were pleased to call Fox's den, and shook hands with the important Mr. Blackhead. He was reminded at once of several undertakers he knew. However, he learned quickly that Blackhead was concerned with prolonging life rather that disposing of the dead.
"Mr. Blackhead," Fox explained coldly, "wants a series of ten full-page color ads to be run in five national magazines."
Willowby puckered his lips, then caught himself just as he was about to whistle.
"That's—interesting," he admitted. Fox grunted.
"I'll have to ask you to handle the job, Jones," he said. "You can use one of the technical department's cameras. Get some accident shots by following the police calls, and prepare the layouts for them. I'm sure you'll have the time to do it easily."
Willowby remembered that Fox was still president and escaped as gracefully as possible. An hour later it dawned on him that he was called upon to do three-quarters of the work with very little of the cash that went with it.
A sense of duty was still strong in Willowby's life. He left the office that evening with a camera and a strong feeling that Fox was once more telling him what to do and enjoying it considerably.
JONES realized that Mrs. Dillwiddy's mind was slightly off the trail, and that he couldn't take anything she said very seriously. However, with his furniture moved into the second floor rooms, the fireplace clean and ready for use, he approached the Ontario Street mansion anticipating a certain amount of pleasure.
Mrs. Dillwiddy had supplied him with a key, and he let himself in quietly. To his surprise, he heard Mrs. Dillwiddy talking to someone in a room just off the hall. He started quietly up the stairs, but Mrs. Dillwiddy's voice was so filled with excitement, that he paused for a moment to listen.
"But Oscar," the old lady was protesting, "you just can't do it. We don't go about killing people because they are in the way."
Willowby's goose-flesh was giving him a little trouble.
"The boy's really very nice," Mrs. Dillwiddy's voice continued. "I'm sure everything will work out all right. Of course, we could hide him in the basement, but they'd surely find him sooner or later."
Something snapped inside Willowby's skull and he knew that after tonight he'd never be troubled again by jumpy nerves. His legs propelled him up the stairs, but at the door of his room, he halted, eyes wide with horror.
His apartment was empty.
He had watched the movers carry furniture up here and had arranged it himself. He had layed out his clothing and hung his suits in the closet.
Everything was gone.
He held the edge of the door tightly, and then moved slowly inside, wondering what to do next. The two rooms were just as they had been the day he first came.
He turned and stared back down the stairs, wondering if he had climbed an extra flight by mistake. No! This was the second floor. Perhaps Mrs. Dillwiddy had stolen his furniture? Perhaps this was a den of thieves? He hurried down the hall to be confronted by his landlady on the bottom step.
With a coy tittle gesture of pleasure, she waited until he was at her side.
"Good evening, Mr. Jones. I do hope the rooms are pleasant."
"They're not," he said abruptly. "They're empty."
To his surprise, she didn't even gasp. They continued to stand there, the old lady evidently seeking an explanation. Her fingers fluttered to her hair and attempted to straighten a stray lock.
"Not really empty?" she protested "Perhaps you should try the third floor. There is one, you know."
"Thanks," Willowby mumbled and turned to climb once more. Then what she had said dawned on him. He pivoted quickly. "But—I didn't move to the third floor," he protested. "I moved to the second."
Mrs. Dillwiddy appeared very hurt.
"I still think you'd be nice enough to try the third," she cried impatiently. "After all, you did promise to cooperate."
Willowby wondered if he should go quietly mad now, or prolong the agony. "All right," he wailed. "But I'm sure I moved to the second floor."
He climbed upward once more, and Mrs. Dillwiddy followed him. He reached the second landing and went on. It was darker up here and the stairs were covered with dust. He reached the third landing.
Through an open door he could see his furniture. It was arranged just as it should be. The two rooms were directly above the ones he had first occupied. He paused at the door, and looked back at his landlady. Mrs. Dillwiddy was regarding him with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Didn't I tell you," she said, and went down the stairs with the firm tread of one who has conquered.
Willowby Jones wasn't quite sure whether he should accept such highhanded proceedings. A careful study of the new rooms proved that everything was as it should be. His suits were in the closet. The fire-place was lighted and very comforting. Even the window had been washed.
He wondered if it were possible for an old woman to do such a terrific job alone. Then he remembered "Oscar," and shuddered.
"We could hide him in the basement, but they'd be sure and find him later."
The Dillwiddy mansion presented some odd problems, but if he used many more days to search for an apartment, Mr. Fox might reach the violent stage. With a sigh of resignation, Willowby settled down to plan an advertising campaign for the Never-A-Care Insurance Company.
WILLOWBY JONES might have answered a hundred police calls and photographed dozens of accidents without getting into trouble. Such, unfortunately, was not his luck. He had nearly enough material to start work of the layouts. One more good automobile crack-up would finish the file.
He found it on Michigan Avenue, after trailing the police ambulance for ten minutes. Two large, black sedans had collided, putting a safety zone and a department store window out of commission. Willowby arrived before the occupants of the cars were free, and snapped his pictures immediately.
As Finger McGowand so aptly expressed it some hours later:
"It's just too bad for da joik that got that pic. Now we'll have to rub him out and get the negative."
Finger McGowand was fresh out of Statesville Prison, without benefit of a pardon. He had left on a dark night with the assistance of a file, a saw and some outside co-operation. The outside co-operation was furnished by a Chicago mug, one Spike Majowsky. It was Majowsky's car that had been wrecked.
Majowsky, McGowand and two of their henchmen were on their way to Wisconsin. Now Finger had to lay low until they could figure another way out of the police net. Innocently enough, Willowby Jones had a photograph picturing just the people the police would like most to interview.
Willowby retired to his third floor apartment early that night and developed the film in a darkroom he had constructed in the closet.
He had spent a total of half an hour in the closet, and the sight that met his eyes upon emerging was somewhat of a shock. He hurried downstairs immediately and confronted Mrs. Dillwiddy. Willowby had suffered a second terrific mental upheaval.
"Mrs. Dillwiddy," he shouted, as she wandered into the hall. "This has got to stop."
Mrs. Dillwiddy fluttered toward him, obviously shaken by her tenant's overwrought condition.
"But I assure you, Mr. Jones," she protested. "I can't imagine what you are talking about."
"My apartment," Willowby howled hysterically. "I've been moved again."
Mrs. Dillwiddy sighed.
"Oh goodness, Is that all."
Willowby felt blood rise to his scalp. If his landlady was a landlord he thought miserably, he'd take a poke at her.
"I suppose," he suggested caustically "that you can tell me just where the furniture is this time."
Mrs. Dillwiddy regarded him as she would a stubborn child.
"Why of course," she said. "If it isn't on the second floor and it isn't on the third, then it has to be...."
Willowby held up a hand for silence.
"Don't tell me," he begged. "Let me guess. Am I now a resident on the first floor?"
"Of course," Mrs. Dillwiddy said. "You should have been able to figure that out."
Her words fell upon unresponsive ears. Willowby Jones was moving cautiously toward his new apartment.
WALLACE the Wart was a very wise guy. Wallace had been putting the finger on Spike Majowsky's enemies for half a dozen years. When Wallace went after a guy, he didn't quit until the job was finished.
But Wallace the Wart hadn't planned on a situation like the one that presented itself on Ontario street.
Mrs. Dillwiddy opened the door cautiously and peered out at the short, dark-skinned man with the huge wart on his chin.
"Good evening, lady," Wallace greeted her in his best brush-salesman manner. "Is a guy living here by the name of Willowby Jones."
"Let me see," Mrs. Dillwiddy said thoughtfully, "Yes, I believe there is a gentleman on the third floor, or is it the second?"
Wallace the Wart couldn't answer that question. He waited hopefully while Mrs. Dillwiddy tipped her head back and gazed at the cracked ceiling.
"It is the third floor," she decided. "Shall I call him?"
"Oh no, not at all lady, the pleasure is mine." Wallace came in quickly, feeling much safer than he had with the street light on his back. "I'll go up and surprise me old pal, Willowby."
He didn't add that the surprise was a hard bulge of steel in his left coat pocket.
Mrs. Dillwiddy retired to her rooms and Wallace the Wart moved up the broad stairs, on his toes.
He reached the third floor and went stealthily toward the first closed door. He hesitated before it, hearing the sound of footsteps inside. Then, gun in hand, opened the door quickly.
"Up with your mitts, jerk." His voice was low and hoarse.
The room was deserted.
Wallace the Wart stared, his mind not quite up to the situation. He heard footsteps again, much closer this time. Wallace was becoming very nervous for so brave a gent. He backed away slightly and repeated his first message. This time he wasn't so brave and a little quaver of uncertainty entered his voice.
The room was still empty, but the footsteps moved toward him swiftly. He felt something slap him across the lips.
Wallace the Wart wasn't accustomed to such treatment.
"Why you dirty," he shouted. Then he realized that this was no place for a guy who couldn't shoot without a target.
Before he could make his escape, he received two more sharp cracks on the head, and a deep, dignified voice roared at him.
"How dare you enter this house, sir. I shall notify the police at once!"
Wallace the Wart didn't stop running until he reached Michigan Avenue. He leaned against a lamp-post, trying to catch his breath. After some time he realized that people were staring at him. He wiped two large tears from his cheeks, pulled his hat down over his eyes and hailed a cab.
"Jeeze," he said in an awed voice. "I ain't got nothing in common with no ghosts. Let Spike handle dis himself."
Back in the Dillwiddy mansion Willowby Jones slept peacefully.
Mrs. Dillwiddy startled by the sudden retreat of Mr. Jones' visitor, stood in the hall wringing her hands in a distracted manner.
"Oh, dear," she whispered. "Why can't I remember. Mr. Jones is on the first floor tonight and I sent that nice gentleman to the third."
WILLOWBY JONES stood in the open door of his first floor apartment. He had been standing there silently for a full minute and growing more angry as each second ticked away.
He hadn't spoken yet, but he knew he should call the police at once.
The man was leaning over Willowby's trunk. His back was turned to Willowby and he was hurriedly throwing Jones' suits into the trunk.
He straightened finally and turned. Willowby was in for another shock. The fellow was much larger than he should have been, and had a face that no mother could ever force herself to love.
The intruder waited very quietly, smiling at Willowby. The smile was very sincere and not unpleasant.
"Good-evening, sir," he said.
The greeting put Willowby on the defensive once more, and he had wanted to start a good fight.
"Good evening," Jones murmured. "And, what is going on in here?"
"You're moving again, sir," the stranger said.
Jones felt his cheeks burn.
"I'm moving?"
The stranger seemed slightly apologetic.
"Just a figure of speech," he explained. "Actually, I'm moving. But I'm moving your possessions, so it amounts to the same thing."
Willowby hardly knew what approach to use.
"But why?" he asked. "I'm always moving. I've been up and down stairs until I deserve an escalator. I've worn holes in the steps, trying to find a place to sleep. Why do, people always pick on me?"
His voice was so plaintive that it affected the intruder.
"I can't really blame you for feeling hurt, sir," he said apologetically. "But you see, it's necessary. It probably saves your life a half dozen times a week."
This, Willowby decided, had gone far enough. Someone explains everything to me and when I leave, I still don't know what's happening.
"Now, listen here," he said in a stern voice. "I want to know who you are, and what this moving business is all about?"
The man stiffened slightly and clicked his heels together.
"I'm Oscar," he announced.
Willowby's knees started to fold. He wished he hadn't spoken so harshly.
"The Oscar—who was talking about—hiding someone in the cellar?"
Oscar nodded.
"Yes sir," he admitted. "You see sir, Mrs. Dillwiddy isn't sound of mind. The Master wouldn't approve of having you here. I have tried to co-operate with both the Master and the Mistress. It's very difficult, especially when you refuse to understand."
"But I don't understand," Willowby wailed, "and because I don't, it doesn't seem to make sense."
Oscar looked thoughtful for a moment, then a smile of friendliness lighted his ugly face.
"You make yourself quite clear," he admitted. "I see no harm in telling you. You see, the Master, Homer Dillwiddy, has been dead these many years.
"It is the Master's wish that no harm comes to his widow. He returns once each night and spends the evening on one floor of the house."
WILLOWBY knew that he ought to start running at once, and stop somewhere south of the Loop. He was held to the spot by the story Oscar told.
"Your money," Oscar continued delicately, "has helped Mrs. Dillwiddy no end. Therefore, to keep the Master from discovering you, I find that I have to switch you from one floor to the next to avoid having him walk in on you."
Willowby wondered if old Homer ever crossed his wires and spent the night on the wrong floor.
"It—must be quite a job," he admitted meekly. "I appreciate your help, but it does bewilder me at times. I find myself awakening in the middle of the night wondering:
"Willowby what floor are you on tonight?"
Oscar looked very sad.
"I do my best sir," he said in a doleful voice. "We all have to face emergencies."
Willowby couldn't help feeling sorry for his own unreasonable attitude.
"I know you do."
Oscar arose rather hurriedly and consulted his watch.
"And now sir, if you'll be so kind as to step outside, I'll move you to the second floor again. Mr. Dillwiddy will be on the first floor tonight."
Willowby wanted to ask for a timetable of Homer Dillwiddy's movements. He decided that such levity was entirely uncalled for.
"May I help you?" he asked. "It's quite a job."
Oscar chuckled.
"Not at all," he said. "I'm a little proud of my accomplishment. Just watch me."
He clapped his hands together stoutly. A white mist filled the room.
Willowby backed into the hall and the mist didn't follow him. He couldn't see a thing inside the room. He heard Oscar muttering in a low voice, then the fog lifted and faded away. The furniture was gone. So was Oscar.
He stared at the empty room with incredulous eyes. He was about to turn away when Oscar's voice sounded from nowhere. The man-servant was chuckling good-naturedly.
"You seem greatly surprised, sir," Oscar's voice said.
"I guess I am," Willowby admitted. "I'm—I'm not quite sure how I feel."
"It's really quite simple," Oscar continued modestly.
"Oh, but it isn't," Willowby protested. "I've never seen a man perform such a miracle."
Oscar was very silent for several seconds, then he chuckled once more and the chuckle changed to infectious laughter. When he had controlled himself enough to speak, his voice came from a spot very close to Willowby's ear.
"But I'm not a man, sir," he whispered. "That is, not an ordinary man. I died a year after the Master did. I'm what people so callously call a ghost. I prefer to think of myself as a spirit."
FINGER MCGOWAND was out to get his man. Spike Majowsky didn't have a bum in his mob who could knock off Willowby Jones. They all told the same story. There wasn't any Jones living on Ontario Street. One by one, they had tried every room in the Dillwiddy mansion without finding the elusive Mr. Jones.
Finger approached the Dillwiddy mansion well-heeled. He carried a rod and, just to make sure, a little time-bomb that he planned to use if Jones was asleep.
Finger was greeted by Mrs. Dillwiddy, who after some deliberation over Mr. Jones's present quarters, directed Finger McGowand to the second floor. There was only one objection to that. Tonight Willowby was sleeping peacefully on the third floor, where Oscar had moved him scantly an hour before.
Finger McGowand received somewhat the same treatment as had Wallace the Wart. However, in Finger's case, the gangster left by way of a second story window, and Homer Dillwiddy's ghost can be pictured rubbing his fingers softly and remarking:
"I don't see where my wife ever finds such people. Definitely not the type to roam through my home."
However, Finger McGowand overlooked something that Wallace the Wart hadn't had to worry about. As he hit the lawn in front of Homer Dillwiddy's home, the time mechanism of the bomb in his pocket was jarred into action.
Exactly five minutes, thirty-two and one-half seconds after Finger McGowand hit the turf, the bomb exploded. Fortunately for Finger's personal feelings about the matter, he was still out cold at the time of the explosion.
It didn't matter much afterwards. Finger wasn't in a position to care much how big a basket he filled.
WILLOWBY JONES wakened the following morning with the song of robins drifting through the window. He dressed carefully, for this was the day Mr. Blackhead would examine his art work and page layouts for the Never-A-Care Insurance campaign.
He greeted Mrs. Dillwiddy with a bright smile, for she was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Did you hear the explosion last night, Mrs. Dillwiddy?" he asked pleasantly.
Mrs. Dillwiddy stared at the ceiling for some time, trying to recall something.
"Oh yes," she said finally. "It was a disturbance, wasn't it? Just outside my window. There were a thousand pieces."
Willowby was startled.
"A thousand pieces of what?"
"Oh yes," the landlady smiled sweetly. "The police said they'd never be able to thank me enough."
"Thank you?" By this time Willowby was more than curious. "But I don't understand."
Mrs. Dillwiddy placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and chucked him under the chin.
"Don't you try, dear boy. I'm sure he wasn't really your friend."
"Who wasn't my friend?" Willowby cried desperately.
"The man who blew up outside my window. And to think the police thought I did it."
"Now look here, Mrs. Dillwiddy," Willowby protested. "Let's settle down and get this straight. Men don't blow up, that is, outside of Mr. Fox," he added as an afterthought.
"Well," the landlady admitted hesitantly, "they did says he was carrying a bomb. It might have been the bomb, but the man blew up with it. I insist that he did."
If a man had died last night, Willowby could get a much more satisfactory report from the morning paper. He escaped Mrs. Dillwiddy as hastily as possible and headed for the door.
"And to think I sent him to the second floor and you were transferred to the third only last night." Mrs. Dillwiddy sighed. "Sometimes I just hate myself for having such a poor memory."
"MR. FOX," Willowby Jones said, "I have the insurance layouts in my office, if you'll bring Mr. Blackhead in."
Mr. Fox hesitated in his progress across the office and altered his course toward Jones' office.
Mr. Blackhead, looking very solemn, followed dutifully. Once they were inside, Willowby closed the door and pointed across the room to the bulletin board on which he had mounted the group of Never-A-Care Insurance layouts.
The three men stood quietly for a moment, looking over the job. Then Mr. Blackhead cleared his throat nervously and walked toward the board. He leaned close to the last layout Willowby had prepared. It had a painted reproduction of the Michigan Avenue Accident, together with a large photograph of the actual scene. Mr. Blackhead seemed very excited. He pulled the thumbtacks from the layout and hurried with it to the desk, where the light was better, Willowby held his breath while the tall man studied the photograph. When Mr. Blackhead looked up his eyes were very close to twinkling pleasantly.
"Young man," he said in a voice that would have comforted a dying cow. "This picture alone is worth a fortune to our company. If we can get across the idea of carrying insurance, and at the same time scoop every newspaper in the country by printing a close-up of Finger McGowand, we'll really get the campaign off to a fine start."
Mr. Fox muttered something excitedly under his breath, seemed to remember what he wanted to say and shouted, at Willowby.
"Why didn't you tell me you had a picture of McGowand?"
Willowby shook his head.
"I didn't know I had it," he admitted feebly. "In fact, I don't even know who he is."
"Who he was," Mr. Blackhead corrected sotto voce. "Finger McGowand escaped from prison last week. The police tried to trail him, but through political pull, he had every picture of himself destroyed. There weren't more than half a dozen people who could describe him.
"The newspapers want pictures, and are ready to pay any price for them. Evidently there isn't another one existing, with the exception of the print you have here."
Willowby sighed.
"So many times," he thought, "I've done brilliant things without knowing it."
"I guess they can find him now," he said in a pleased voice. "I have the negative and we can make plenty of prints for the police."
Mr. Fox chuckled in a very unpleasant manner, but Mr. Blackhead was on Willowby's side.
"They don't need pictures now," he said mournfully. "McGowand was blown into a million pieces last night. Every news agency in the country will pay for the rights to reproduce this. Our advertisement will be the first to show the public what Finger McGowand looked like alive."
But Willowby wasn't listening to Mr. Blackhead's rambling.
McGowand was blown into a thousand pieces, and he, Willowby Jones had the only picture. Mrs. Dillwiddy had told him the visitor asked for him. She had directed McGowand to the second floor. Oscar said Homer Dillwiddy's ghost would be on the second floor.
HE knew that both Mr. Fox and Mr. Blackhead were staring at him. He looked at Mr. Fox, and that gentleman had only hatred and envy in his eyes. Not so Mr. Blackhead. The insurance representative stared at Willowby as though Jones were something akin to an angel.
At that moment, Willowby Jones made a decision that had been troubling him for a long time. He turned sternly to Mr. Fox.
"I'm sorry, but I refuse to give Fox & Laird a share for this work," he said. "You've been collecting three quarters of everything I've made for a long time. I do the work and you sit in your office and gloat."
Mr. Fox's face glowed as though he had just drawn it out of a furnace door. His fists were clenched tightly and he struggled for his breath. "Why you—you ungrateful...."
"Hard-working office boy," Willowby interrupted stubbornly. "I've landed every big account you've got. I sewed up the Banker Whiskey job and I'm collecting ten thousand a year from Barbarous Blond. If I took those accounts away from you, you'd have to go to work yourself."
Fox knew somehow that his bluff wasn't working as it had in the past. He knew that Jones was telling the truth. From the admiring glint in Blackhead's eyes, he guessed that Never-A-Care Insurance would donate another hundred thousand dollars to Willowby's upkeep.
Fox had a temper, but he also knew when it was useless to fight. A crafty gleam replaced the look of frustration in his eyes.
"But Willowby," he protested in a milder voice. "Where does this leave me? I'll gladly take you on as a partner. In fact, since Laird was called by the Navy, I've been thinking...."
"Partnership nothing," Willowby growled.. He was feeling the full strength of his new triumph. "You've kicked me around long enough. I can start an agency of my own."
"But the name of Fox & Laird," Fox groaned. "Think of the prestige? You can even have my office."
Mr. Blackhead smiled approvingly from the sidelines, but Willowby wasn't satisfied.
"You're damned right I'll have your office," he said. "And when I call you, I want you to come running."
Mr. Fox shrugged.
"We'll change the name to Fox & Jones," he promised. "And now are you ready to discuss contracts, Mr. Blackhead?"
Blackhead started to speak but Willowby silenced him with a polite motion of his hand.
"There are still a few points to mention, Fox," he said smoothly. "To begin with the name will be Jones & Fox Advertising Agency. Secondly, you will move to my office at once and I will take over yours."
"And I," Mr. Blackhead broke in gently, "will see that you receive five checks of fifty-thousand dollars each to get this first ad properly distributed. I think we should buy space in several nationally known periodicals."
If Fox had any further doubt of his plans for the future, the mention of so large an amount of money changed them abruptly. He was fairly purring by this time.
"I'm afraid, Willowby, that I have no choice. I'll move from my office and see that our lawyer makes the proper changes in the corporation papers next week."
"You'll do it today," Willowby insisted. "You'll do it before Mr. Blackhead signs a contract."
Blood-pressure showed warning signs once more. Mr. Fox's neck turned a delightful pink. There was one last bit of defiance left in his heart.
"I'll have the papers changed today," he promised, "but, so help me, Jones, I've still got some prestige left around this office. I won't take a stick of furniture out of that office until the spirit moves me."
Willowby thought of Oscar, the friendly ghost, and his willingness to be of service at any time.
"I think," he said with a gentle smile, "that I can take care of that."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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