Death from a Top Hat Read Free

remained trance-like and soundless.
    Stalling, and trying to fathom the queerness which hung around this group in the hall, I made conversation, inquiring, rather pointlessly, “What is Sabbat anyway, a chemist?”
    The Colonel, eyes still on the woman, echoed absently, “A chemist?” Then after a pause he brought his attention back to myself.
    “A chemist?” he repeated. “No, not…exactly. Why do you ask?”
    “I just wondered. It smells that way now and then.” I became aware, as I said it, that the hall smelled that way now.
    Watrous smiled faintly. “The hermetic art,” he said, half to himself, “ is an odorous pursuit.” And then more directly: “The Doctor’s field is anthropology, with special emphasis on primitive magic and religions. He is not only a widely recognized authority on cabalistic theory, but also a practical student of many of the occult sciences. Furthermore…”
    “Furthermore,” said the kneeling man quietly, “you talk too damned much.”
    As he stood up and faced us I got a better look at him, though the light in the corridor was too shadowy for details and he seemed to avoid the additional illumination which came from my doorway. He was a man of medium height, in his late thirties. His body was admirably proportioned, and there was an unmistakable look of tense, willowy strength and trained coordination in his movements. I was puzzled by his clothes until I discovered who and what he was. His top hat was as shiny as they look in the advertisements, and an opera cape hung from his shoulders over evening dress that was obviously Bond Street. His face, twisted into a sardonic slant by the monocle he was wearing, had a taut, hair-trigger look. An inch-long strip of adhesive tape angled along his left lower jaw, strikingly out of key with his otherwise impeccable appearance.
    Watrous pulled up momentarily, frowned, and then went on quite amiably as if nothing had happened.
    “Allow me to introduce Mr. Eugene Tarot, of whom you have doubtless heard. Mr. Tarot—Mr.—” He glanced at the card tacked to my door “Harte, I think.”
    I nodded coldly. The Great Tarot, of whom I had heard, was busily scowling at Watrous and didn’t even bother to nod coldly. Along with a considerable share of the public, I knew of him as the Card King, a sleight-of-hand performer of polished excellence, whose clever dexterity, chiefly in the manipulation of playing cards, had won him top theatrical bookings. He was, currently, garnering national publicity and pocketing a fat pay check for playing the title role in Xanadu, the Magician, a radio serial of his own devising that was presented nightly by a prosperous automotive sponsor.
    Watrous blandly continued: “And this is Madame Rappourt, who is on her way to being recognized, if I may say so, as the greatest psychic personality of our day. The press has been so kind of late as to give her some of the attention which she so rightly merits. You have probably read…”
    The Colonel’s introduction, continuing for another paragraph or so, began to sound like a side-show barker’s build up, and he lost my attention. The woman’s name was one that I half expected. Madame Rappourt was the Colonel’s discovery and protégée, a spirit medium who had created no little scientific and quite a lot of journalistic fuss in European circles. For the past two weeks, since her arrival in this country, the newspapers had showered the pair with publicity, largely favorable, which, paid for at line rates, would have amounted to plenty. I suspected that this was due partly to a prevailing lack of colorful news and partly to a smart press agent. When I discovered later that it was Watrous who had managed to induce the notices, I began to respect his flair for showmanship.
    According to what he had given the papers, Madame Rappourt was a native of Hungary. A large, huskily built woman, with swarthy masculine features, she almost towered over the abridged Colonel at