boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

Review Copy 429
lievable name, Hieronymus Melanchthon?”
“A pseudonym, of course. So much of that quasi-mystical literature is
pseudonymous.”
“Like the man who wrote under the name of St. John a century or so later?”
Mallow asked slyly. “Well, I know who’s back of this pseud. Translate it, and
what do you get?”
The Reverend summoned up his seminarian Greek. “Jerome Black … land,
would it be?”
“Exactly. Rich screwball New Yorker. Got all tangled up with black magic and
stuff and turned out an amazing opus, half-novel, half-autobiography, that made
William Seabrook and Montague Summers look like skeptics. I had fun with it. I
think I’ll have fun with this, too— Damn!” He broke off and stared at his thumb.
“I’m bleeding. Did this infernal opus up and take a nip at me? No … I’m not bleeding.
It’s off the book. What the devil kind of ink is this?”
The Reverend looked—and was—perplexed. On his own hand the smudge from
that strangely printed volume was black. On Mark Mallow’s it was blood-red. It
seemed perverse. Doubtless some simple explanation—some chemical salt present
in Mallow’s body secretions and not in his which acted as reagent … Nevertheless
he was nervous, and found an occasion promptly to leave the office.
Mallow went on into the inner office to confer with The Great Man, leaving
The Blood behind him. This time it stayed put, waiting for him. Miss Wentz tried
to type again, but still the room was unempty. Not until Mallow and his bookcrammed
briefcase had departed did the room feel ordinary again.
Mark Mallow settled himself comfortably on the Bridge train. It was the commuters’
hour and the train was packed; but experience and ingenuity always
combined to get him a seat. When he had finished a cursory examination of the
afternoon newspaper, he spread it over his trouser legs, hoisted his briefcase
up onto his lap, and began rummaging among the week’s stock. The paunchy
businessman occupying the other half of the seat needed more than a half
for his bulk; but Mallow’s muscles, skilled in this form of civilian commando,
unconsciously fended off his encroachment.
The ride over the Bay Bridge, even by train (which operates on a lower and
less scenic level than motor traffic), is beautiful and exciting the first time. But
habitués never glance out the window unless to attempt to draw deductions
from ships in port at the moment. Mark Mallow saw nothing of the splendor
of the bay as he selected the latest Simenon to enjoy on the trip. (For Mallow
did enjoy reading a good whodunit; he merely hated to write about any but
the stinkers.)
He read the first page over three times before he realized that the endeavor was
vain. Something urged him to replace the Simenon in the briefcase and extract another
volume, the one with the oddly figured jacket. His hand seemed to move of itself,
and at the same time his muscles announced the surprising fact that there was no
longer a pressure from the businessman. In fact, he seemed to be edging away.
Mallow smiled as he opened the book. The pretentious absurdity of the title
page delighted him, and the text more than lived up to it. (The businessman did not