The Case of the High Street Ghosts

Mid-summer outside our cozy lower flat, where we, C. Emerson Copperhead and I, passed our strictly platonic relationship, on a certain side-street in Lodnon, at around about one in the afternoon, it was. Emerson was once again flipping Zener cards, and guessing them right some three-fifths of the time, while I was reading a found book whose name I can't cite since the cover had been lost. (It concerned a boy and a girl.) Then Emerson looked up in his curious way, and I knew there was someone coming quietly down the stone steps to our door.

I ran to open it, to affect the element of surprise. (It was one of my sole pleasures, guiltily so.) The man, for a man it was, had his hand already raised to knock, so I naturally took the wind out of him. I said: "We were expecting you," with a knowing and crooked smile. The man nodded and grinned and said: "So I guess the stories are true." "Yes, the stories are true, and you know you've reached the right place."

He was of an average height, an average weight, wearing an average coat and average shoes and he was topped with an average hat upon average hair. I led him into our living-space; Emerson was putting away his cards and reaching for his pipe; a monkey passed by the high-up window, and the monkey looked in at us with a curiously non-simian expression. (Much looked curious to me, back in those days.)

Emerson spoke first: "Have a seat, Mr. Stephen Dewson of Tralafger Square. Oh, please, simply sit down! It's a mere trick I picked up in India. I can readily read people's names, and the streets from which they hail, but I can tell oh-so-little else. All I really know is that you've come to me with something of a problem, and you expect me to be able to solve it."

Mr. Dewson abruptly turned his head toward the window, and listened intently. It was obvious to me someone was after him; but who? Mr. Dewson returned his attention to the room and quietly said: "I think they are after me, but I don't know why. Why do they not speak? Who are they, and what do they want?"

Emerson raised one eyebrow, professionally so. "Who do you think they are? It sounds like you have assassin problems, but I do not deal in assassin problems, except where there are demons or witches or suchlike involved. I must rather say: 'Good-day to you then,' and direct you to the constabulary."

Mr. Dewson put out his hand arrestingly. "They would not be able to help, for, and I have asked around, they would be incapable of seeing my pursuers. I am the only one able to see them, and that's precisely why I need your services."

"Well, then, I apologize. I have terrible manners. Please, do describe these pursuers of yours."

"I only used that term to catch your pique; I don't actually know if they're pursuing me or not. They are out on the street, simply walking down streets, singly or in pairs; or, rather, perhaps in pairs. It is possible what I perceive to be a pair is rather two of them walking in the same direction. If they were capable of speech, I could be more certain."

"Good Lord!" I cried. "How do you know they are incapable of speech?"

Mr. Dewson leaned forward in a serious manner, and almost whispered: "They do not have mouths. The lower halves of their faces, from nose-bridge to below-chin, are entirely without feature."

Emerson, patiently, asked: "How close have you ever come to one of them?"

"Not especially close; they always seem to be some distance away. In fact, it's almost like I possess some aura they fear to penetrate."

"So, only from a certain distance. How are they dressed otherwise?"

"They are dressed in a normal fashion, but their clothes seem to be almost bleached out." Here Mr. Dewson wiped his brow. "Frankly, their entire appearance is almost sketchy, and softened on the borders of their selves, like watercolours left out in the rain."

Emerson laughed. "What a terrific image! 'Like watercolours left out in the rain.' Did you think of that just now?"

"No, certainly not. It's been running through my head a week's-length, after having noticed them for a week thus far. So, in almost a summary, they can be seen, only by either: one, myself; or two, perhaps, one who's concentrating deeply; or three, myself ... but when deeply concentrating."

I piped up. "Most extraordinary! Most extraordinary!"

"And that extraordinary is why I have come to you, for I know the extraordinary is your bread-and-butter."

"That is true," said Emerson with his typical smug. "I see vastly more‑by my calculations, 321% more‑than an ordinary person; and yet I have to admit the variety of uncharted phenomena is inestimable. Who knows what metaphysics will throw at us next? All I can do, despite my extraordinary abilities, is to chip away at the mountain one pebble at a time. Today seems a day for metaphor, does it not? Let us return to the subject, Mr. Dewson. Are these ones you witness visible on all thoroughfares generally? Or are they more seen on, say, Charnig Cross than on, again say, Befdord?"

Mr. Dewson replied: "I have been keeping track, collecting my memories, in preparation for our meeting today." He reached into a satchel he had been carrying all this time, but which I had failed to notice, to pull out a folio-size sheet which he proceeded to unfold across the oaken desk which I have failed to remark upon. The entirety was a map of the area, and across this map he had written numerals representative. Emerson looked over the map. He understood it immediately. That was his way.

"So," Emerson began: "The spectres, if spectres they are, appear to be clustering in the richer areas of our metropolis while eschewing the poorer. Could there be a reason for this? Ah, it's too early for hypotheses! Rather, seeing is believing, as some foolishly say, and a trip into the wider world, though not something I care to do on a regular basis, seems highly warranted."

Mr. Dewson asked: "Shall I accompany you?"

"I think that is a good idea. After I prepare my Third Eye, we will be at least synchronized to your level, though I daresay I will surpass yours readily, handily, even. You will be able to point out to me where you see your spirits, and I will tune myself to their frequencies. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go do some mental preparations. Please, feel free to have a game of chequers with my friend while you wait."

As Emerson went into the back room‑the room with all his chemistry equipment, all his curious and quaint volumes of forgotten lore, and all his idols and icons and what-not‑I quickly pulled out the chequerboard and started setting up the pieces. Now, chequers was my kind of game. I could scarcely lose, such did my studies of the classic moves and so on allow me. We played quickly, and I won. Just after I'd crowed victorious, Emerson returned, looking no different from his departure.

He said to me: "Keep the home fires burning, here at home. Mr. Dewson and I are going out to do some ghost-busting."

Together, they went to the door and departed.

I was left alone for some three hours, during which I made myself some chicken soup, scanned the morning papers for items of interest, and tidied up our twin bureaux. As I was doing all this business, I was thinking back to earlier times: the small village in which I was born; the grammar school in which I matriculated; the woman I had married, and lost; my despair, and my rescue, by C. Emerson Copperhead, who took me on as secretary despite my flaws; the happy happy day when we'd come upon a suitable flat to share; and of our varied cases since then, especially "The Case of the Inverted Commas," which I'd actually allowed to be published. All seemed so long ago, and yet present to this day. Funny, that.

Emerson and Mr. Dewson returned, looking positively shagged. I figured that was probably the case, at least on Emerson's part, for he so rarely left the flat, preferring instead to astrally project himself into theatres, cafes, whorehouses and the like. Emerson quickly crossed the room to throw himself into his armchair while Mr. Dewson, who'd been clutching his hat nervously at the entranceway, dared to seat himself in a nearby broken rocky wooden chair. I was ever-so-eager to hear about what had transpired, and yet I waited for Emerson to regain his normal communicative mode of consciousness.

Finally, Emerson said: "You're probably intensely curious about where we have gone, and what we have seen. Well, be prepared to hear of the mysterious circumstances, and furthermore the mysterious situation, we all find ourselves to be in on this mid-summer's day.

"Mr. Dewson and myself headed straight for the fashionable district. Along the way, I prodded him occasionally as to any spirits he could see, but no, he said: there were none in the first half-hour of our walk. Then, as we rounded a corner, he quickly pointed and cried: 'There's one!' I looked, and saw a shape, but I could make out little more than a grey figure who disappeared down an alleyway. We moved quickly to the spot, but whatever it was had disappeared, or even vanished. Who knew at that point?

"Continuing on for some time, Mr. Dewson cried: 'Look! Another!' This time the figure was plainer to see, though still like a 'watercolour left out in the rain.' I adjusted my senses as a mariner adjusts his sextant; the figure became slightly clearer. I continued to concentrate, concentrate, concentrate: then I had an image of a moderate quality. We circled around the slow-moving figure, and I saw that, yes, the thing had neither nose nor mouth. I moved closer and closer; then, when I was some two yards away the thing grunted, turned, and went off in the opposite direction. However, as it turned, I saw clearly a dark string wrapped around its ear, a loop of some sort. I examined my memory with care; there was something to that piece of string that held a clew to the whole mystery. That's when I realized that the thing had been wearing something like a surgical mask!"

I, having been a surgeon at one stage of my career, as well as a top-notch barber and delouser, could scarcely believe this. Had an army of surgeon-ghosts descended on our fair metropolis? And whatever for? Possibly in revenge for our imperialistic ways? I said: "Do you mean these are all ... surgeons?"

Emerson replied: "Frankly, I doubt it, though I cannot fully discount the idea. Is it so impossible for all the dead surgeons of our nation to have returned, in a kind of protest? But, what for? for I've seen little surgery-related news in the last while. In any case, we have to take the fact for what it is, as I later verified: these spectres are all wearing surgical masks."

"Does that mean you saw more of them?"

"Oh, yes; many, many more. As we approached the expensive part of town, with my eyes finely attuned to my deep sight, I saw more, and more, and more. All wearing surgical masks, all silent and walking along most carefully, rather careful not to come within some six feet of anyone else. Never speaking, as if they were all lost souls who'd become unmoored from reality. Walk they would, sometimes turning corners, fully obeying all rules of the thoroughfare. Mr. Dewson pointed out to me that, even when in pairs, or seemingly in pairs, they kept apart. Every time I neared one, it would back away in fear, like I was diseased. It's a most curious phenomenon, which will require some thought to solve. In any case, I'd seen enough, so Mr. Dewson and I returned here."

"An extraordinary tale."

"I've been through other extraordinary things."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But still: extraordinary."

"True."

"Emerson, do you have any idea what they are?"

He paced the room whilst Mr. Dewson sat mutely. The monkey passed by, peering inside once more with intensely curious eyes. Did the monkey have something to do with it? "Emerson, could a monkey have anything to do with this?"

Emerson caught himself in mid-step, then laughed aloud. "Oh my, oh my, well, anyway. The spectres, back to the spectres. They may or may not be here for a reason. Perhaps they're merely passing through on their way to another dimension. However, the key here is Mr. Dewson himself, about whom we know so little. Mr. Dewson, is there something extraordinary about you?"

"No, nothing at all."

"Oh, come now, there must be something."

"My mind's a blank."

"Your parentage?"

"Perfectly normal."

"Any outstanding grudges, with a warlock, for example?"

"No, no grudges with anyone, not any."

"What is your employment?"

"I'm simply a chemist."

"An apothecary?"

"No, chemistry itself. Organic chemistry, actually."

"Any specialty?"

"Mostly microbiology, naturally. I hope some day to make some great discovery, but so far I'm mostly a mere technician."

"This is getting us nowhere. I can see no connection. No leads! We need some more information, naturally, and ... and I think I know where to get it from."

I could see that the wheels inside his head had been turning at a vociferous rate. He'd obviously thought out the plan ahead of time, along with a dozen other possibilities. We just had to wait for him to be his dramatic self.

"Let us say you want to know why a horse is grazing a particular ground. You could survey the land ... or ask local informants ... or, you could simply ask the horse."

Mr. Dewson dared say: "Horses can't talk."

Emerson raised a serious and clever finger. "Ah, that's where you're wrong. There are ways of making horses speak. Telepathy, for instance. In any case, for just that same reason we are going to capture one of these spectres to interrogate it, here, in this very room."

"How can you catch one of them?" (This was Mr. Dewson talking.) "They appear to flee from anything that comes within arm's-reach."

Emerson pretended to find this argument cogent. "Yes, yes, yes, there is the rub. Hmmm."

I revised my opinion: he not only had a plan, but he also had a certain piece of equipment we had only used once before, when we'd had to deal with a dragon years ago.

Emerson said: "I have an interesting structure I built some years ago, and it will be put to use again. It is an invisible cage."

"What?" (Mr. Dewson again.) "That's impossible!"

"Not to me. It's a clever little thing, and just the right size. We've only used it once, to capture a small dragon, which is about the same size as one of our spectres. Just the thing to imprison one of these blighters!"

"But to capture one.... They're so avoidant, what can you use as bait?"

"We'll use nothing at all. We can simply set it up‑‑ Have you seen them out at night?"

"Why, yes. They come out regardless of the sun's position in the sky."

"That's good. We certainly don't want to capture some noble burgher instead. We can take the trap out tonight, set it in a prominent streetway, and dollars to dough-nuts, sooner or later, one will walk right into it."

"But," and here was Mr. Dewson thinking very seriously: "Won't they be able to simply pass through the invisible bars?"

"Oh, my dear Mr. Dewson, they're not made of ectoplasm. They keep their feet on the ground, don't they? They're not simply floating some inches above or below the road surface, are they? They have substance; they can't simply vanish.... I suppose. No, we have to take that chance that they can't simply vanish. So, let us do this; let us catch ourselves one, bring it here, and give it the third degree."

Mr. Dewson scratched his head in a most obvious manner, as if to say: "I have my doubts." Then he shook off his doubts and cried: "What hour should we head out?"

I looked to the window. There was that monkey again! I said: "It's getting dusky now. I suppose you could leave in a couple of hours."

"Perfect! Come, help me bring out the cage."

Together, Emerson and I, went into our storage room at the back of the flat. The storage room looked very much like a gardener's shed, except that instead of rakes, hoes, hand-saws, screwdrivers, and hammers it contained medium-large crystal balls, stage magic kits, plastic skeletons, divining rods or every shape and size, and a rusty iron maiden whose purpose of possession I never ascertained. There, in the back, Emerson reached out and grabbed one of the invisible wall sections and passed it to me. I moved it out of the room and went back inside to take from him the other two wall supports. Then came the door, the base, and the top. Together we carried the six pieces (along with the invisible connector pieces and the invisible screws) out into the central room and dropped it all nearly noiselessly upon the floor.

Mr. Dewson laughed. "You look just like you're in panto!"

Emerson ignored the comment, rather saying: "It's a delicate piece of equipment, my friend. I believe we can pre-assemble most of it here."

Emerson took the invisible base and eight of the invisible L-shaped pieces and invisibly screwed the latter onto the former. He then screwed eight more invisible Ls onto the invisible back part, and eight more onto the invisible top part. The invisible hooked hinges were next to be put, on the right invisible wall of the invisible cage.

"I think that's about as far as we can go," said Emerson. He looked out the window. "I suppose it must be around midnight?"

I looked at my new wrist-watch. "Yes, almost midnight on the dot."

"Then we should be going. Mr. Dewson, help me with these." Emerson held out to him one of the invisible walls, and Mr. Dewson, unfamiliar with invisible objects, groped around before his hand hit something; he wrapped his hand around one of the bars of the invisible cage. Emerson released his grip, and Mr. Dewson said:

"My God! It doesn't weigh anything at all!"

Emerson laughed. "Well, why should it? It's invisible, it has almost no weight at all, save for that which it must have in order for it to not float away."

Mr. Dewson swung it around a little until his hand received a shock because the wall invisibly hit a visible wall. "Goodness!" he cried.

Emerson laughed again. "Goodness? I think we're well beyond good and evil here. Come, come, here's the base and the top. I shall carry the other three parts."

If I had been someone unfamiliar with invisible cages, I think I might have laughed to see two men acting like mimes who were cleverly carrying objects unseen. But, of course, I did not laugh, because I recognized how serious the situation was.

Emerson said to me: "Keep the home fires burning, friend; I don't know how long this will take, but we're not coming back without one of those fiends trapped in this cage."

"Good luck to you," I said. I'll be here, waiting for you. All three of you, I should say, ha-ha."

And, with that, the two proceeded out the door and onto the street.

Again I was left alone, with little to occupy my time. I decided to spend it doing some of the meditation exercises Emerson had taught me. I sat in the middle of the floor, and loosely concentrated on my third eye, the one in the middle of my forehead. Soon the walls drifted away, and I was in the middle of an endless ocean, rocking gently on the waves that easily supported me. Birds of the sea flew overhead as if they were communicating with me. The day of the sea passed into night, and it became dark, and I dissolved into the nothingness of blackness.

When I returned to this world, the world of my apartment, some two hours had passed. Just as I was wondering how much longer they were going to be, I heard the noise of their return. Down the stairs and into the room they came, carrying the invisible cage with a kind of grace. In the space where the cage was not visible to me, I could however see a psychedelic shimmering figure; so this was one of the spectres in my very own home. With my mind clear from my meditation, I concentrated more, and, sure enough, the figure started to look like the figure of a person, probably male, and probably fit (though not in that way).

"As you can see, my friend," began Emerson, "our hunting expedition went well." Together they put the invisible cage in the centre of the room and upright. The fuzzy figure turned this way and that in a bewildered fashion.

"So I see," I said. "I don't know if you took a long or a short time. What do you figure?"

"We set the cage up on a sidewalk these things seemed to like; a broad way, wider than any other in the area. We set the cage to close automatically if anyone reached the back wall. Unfortunately, first there came a street-walker into the trap. She didn't scream, which was fortunate. We freed her from the cage, I gave her some money for her troubles, and she went on her way in a befuddled fashion. We re-set the trap and crossed again to the other side of the street.

"After about a half hour, we got lucky. I pointed; Mr. Dewson said: 'Yes, here comes one.' The thing walked right into the trap, and the trap closed. As with the streetwalker, it was befuddled by its surroundings, so we hurried across the street. I told it: 'Have no fear. You are in an invisible cage because we have some questions for you.' The thing mumbled something from behind its mask. Quickly we picked up the cage and cautiously proceeded back to this our domicile. So now is the time to find out exactly what this thing is."

Emerson went to the cage and said to the thing inside: "It's time to take off your mask!"

The thing started moaning in terror and writhing terribly, and that was when I heard the first sound from it: I heard a muffled shriek: "No! No! The phlayg! The phlayg!"

Emerson leaned toward the cage and the shimmery being moved as far away as possible. "We can't hear you properly. Take off your mask!"

"No! No! The phlayg! The phlayg!"

"If that's the way it's going to be.... Bring me my acetylene torch. We'll burn the mask off."

I sadistically hurried back to our supply room and returned with the torch. Emerson sparked it up and adjusted the flame to a brilliant blue. "Mr. Dewson, reach in and grab its arms."

As the flame, through the invisible bars, neared something barely visible, the voice cried: "Shtop! Shtop! We'll remove it!"

"Do so."

I saw some motion, and heard a gasp. "It's off! It's off! May you burn in Hell for this!"

Emerson, having accomplished his aim, returned to his usual serene self. "What, pray-tell, would I burn in Hell for?"

The voice said: "You have exposed us to the plague!"

Emerson looked around the room searchingly; at Mr. Dewson, at myself; at the ceiling, walls, and floor. "There's no plague here, my friend."

"Nonsense! It is everywhere, and it is invisible! It could strike you dead at any time!"

Emerson looked at me to quip: "It looks like our new friend has what we might call 'germophobia'."

"It seems that way to me," I replied. I looked to the window, half-expecting to see that accursed monkey looking in, with mockery in its eyes. Did I see it or didn't I?

Emerson asked the thing: "So, you think they're everywhere, do you?"

"Yes!"

Emerson paced the room. "Could it be that these things have travelled the astral planes to escape some germ-infested hell-hole? Without actually knowing they have finally escaped it? Are they acting according to some revenant emotional disturbance?"

I had to interrupt. "We may be on the wrong track here, for it is a known fact that our world has indeed a lot of nasty microbes in it. In other words, we can't really say this room is germ-free."

Upon hearing my words, the thing started howling in terror again, and it took some minutes for it to stop howling. Emerson, unruffled, asked it: "Do you know where you are?"

The thing said: "We are not sure, not one bit. All we know is terror!"

"Well, a knowledge of terror isn't such a bad thing, you know, my freaky friend. 'One should stay out of trouble.' But, anyway: we caught you out walking the streets. What were you doing that for?"

The thing breathed heavily a couple times, and said: "Mild aerobics. Sometimes we require mild aerobics to stay sane."

Emerson laughed. "I think it's too late for that! Anyhow, do you know through whose streets you were walking?"

"We.... We used to know.... We remember tall buildings, and automobiles.... Bright lights.... Big city.... Now we have forgotten these things because we cannot ignore ... the plague!"

"Again: There is no plague."

"There is a plague! You lie! Follow the science! Respect our pronouns!"

We three went into the corner of the room furthest from the cage for a consultation. Emerson began: "It's very possible they come from another point on the line of the fourth dimension."

"Time travel?" I asked.

"Yes. Which would explain why they are invisible to most people. Modern science, you see, strictly theoretical, dictates that every object is simultaneously everywhere else at the same time; that is to say, everything is connected in something like Buddhahood. These beings‑or people, as they may well be‑are only partially here, whilst being primarily somewhere else. In other words, they are fragments, and thus they appear as fragments."

"Ah!" (Mr. Dewson.) "So, do you think there's a way to force them out of our present Lodnon time?"

Emerson rubbed his brow. "I don't know, actually. I once made the ghost of a British monarch return to the grave, but, in this case, there's a problem in that these beings are gripped by an hysteria. I'm toying with the idea of reasoning them out of their absurd beliefs."

"Oh," I said: "You can't reason with madmen. They will simply turn against you."

"Yes, there is that problem. Let us return to the subject."

"Aren't we already on the subject?"

"I mean the guy in the cage, idiot."

We approached the invisible cage again. I could see that Emerson was trying with all his supernatural might to formulate a call-and-response that would bring forth the most information. He said to the fuzzy image in the cage: "We're back. Do you know we're here? Do you know who we are?"

"Not at all, not all of you."

"What? Does my fame reach that far into the sublime and arcane and histrionically unearthly?"

"No, no, no! We do not know you. We do not know you."

"Then, whom do you know?"

"Dewson! Dewson! Dewson!"

Emerson turned to Dewson to pointedly say: "I believe you have not told us everything."

Mr. Dewson shrugged, saying: "I don't know what this creature is referring to."

The creature added: "The monkeys! All the monkeys!"

Emerson, who hadn't removed his gaze from Mr. Dewson, said seriously: "What's all this about monkeys, Dewson?"

"Monkeys? Why, I use monkeys in my day job, certainly."

"Whatever for?"

"My colleagues and I are gathering virus information from the fleas that infest them; they are very special monkeys, from a cave in Southern China."

"Mojiang, Yunnan?"

"Why, yes, how did you know?"

"Wild guess. And so you're researching viruses?"

"Yes, so I said."

My thoughts naturally turned to the monkey or monkeys whom I had seen out on the street. I asked: "Mr. Dewson, have any of your monkeys escaped recently?"

Mr. Dewson was silent for a moment.

Emerson sighed sadly. "Oh, Mr. Dewson, one escaped, didn't it?"

"Well ... yes. Jumped right out of the cabriolet and sped off." Mr. Dewson breathed heavily; I even saw a tear in his eye.

"And when precisely did that happen?"

"Oh, I suppose, about two weeks ago."

"Which was just before you started spotting the creatures."

"By George, you're right! But how could fact A and fact B be related?"

Emerson decided to sit down. He fondled a brass statue of a cherub before saying: "If we capture that monkey, I believe the spectres will vanish."

"How could that possibly work?"

"It's rather simple. That monkey of yours is capable of spreading a plague through the world, in a 'pan-demic', you might say."

"But the virus we've isolated‑it's barely worse than the common cold."

"Certainly I believe you. However, though these spectres appear to be aspects from some time in the future, they are rather the eternal spectres of mass hysteria."

"What?"

"They are the essence of mass hysteria, presented to you in bodily form. Just as Scrooge was visited by three temporal essences of Christmas, so are you being visited by the atemporal essences connected to your actions." He stood up and approached the invisible cage once more. "Spectre: You are from sometime in the future, and you are Mass Hysteria. Are you from centuries hence?"

"We are not sure; we believe we are outside of time!"

Emerson chuckled and turned away. "I surmise we are going to now be monkey-catchers."

"Emerson," I interrupted: "I have to note that all day I have been seeing a monkey pass by the window outside, looking in; first I thought it was looking at me, but perhaps it was looking at Mr. Dewson."

Mr. Dewson abruptly ran to the window and peered out. Without turning, he asked: "When did you see him last?"

"Couldn't have been more than a half-hour ago, if I wasn't imagining things."

He ran out the door and into the street.

"I've seldom seen someone run so fast," I gainsaid.

"Yes, curious. I wonder if he'll return."

Emerson sat down to smoke a pipe and ponder the plenitudes. By way of conversation, he said: "These microscopic organisms: I don't think they should be messed with. Curse the invention of the microscope! If we could merely be at peace with the little varmints and not be messing with whatever heads they have, humanity would have a chance. Don't mess with Mother Nature, my friend! She's a trillion years smarter than you!"

The door opened, and in walked Mr. Dewson with a monkey in his arms. "Let's not have any repeat of such shenanigans again, my apish friend!" (He was talking to the monkey.)

Emerson said: "You've got your little boyfriend back, I see. Oh, and look: Look at the cage."

Mr. Dewson turned to look, paused for a moment, then said: "I see absolutely nothing. The spectres seem to have departed, back to wherever they came from."

I said: "So no more masked spectres wandering the streets of Lodnon?"

Emerson said: "No more spectres walking the streets of Lodnon, my feminine friend. Ah! Another case solved and off the books."

Mr. Dewson said: "Yes, I guess it's over with." He tickled the monkey's belly, and the monkey laughed girlishly. "Thank you for your help, Emerson. I know I owe you nothing but gratitude."

"And I accept your gratitude whole-heartedly."

"Now if you excuse us, we have a date with some bananas."

"Bon Appetit."

Mr. Dewson left our home, and we haven't seen him since.

I said: "I think I'm going to have to puzzle over this one for a while, Emerson."

"Take your time, talk your time." And he laughed.

 

End, The