Dearest | Page 8

his wife's mental condition as because he wanted to get control of
my estate. I also suppose that the tension she was under here, this afternoon, was too
much for her, and the scheme boomeranged on its originators. Curious case of poetic
justice, but I'm sorry you had to be included in it, Doctor."
"Attaboy, Popsy!" Dearest enthused. "Now you have them on the run; don't give them a
chance to re-form. You know what Patton always said--Grab 'em by the nose and kick
'em in the pants."
Colonel Hampton re-lighted his cigar. "Patton only said 'pants' when he was talking for
publication," he told her, sotto voce. Then he noticed the unsigned commitment paper
lying on the desk. He picked it up, crumpled it, and threw it into the fire.
"I don't think you'll be needing that," he said. "You know, this isn't the first time my
loving nephew has expressed doubts as to my sanity." He sat down in the chair at the
desk, motioning to his servant to bring him a drink. "And see to the other gentlemen's
glasses, Sergeant," he directed. "Back in 1929, Stephen thought I was crazy as a bedbug
to sell all my securities and take a paper loss, around the first of September. After
October 24th, I bought them back at about twenty per cent of what I'd sold them for, after
he'd lost his shirt." That, he knew, would have an effect on T. Barnwell Powell. "And in
December, 1944, I was just plain nuts, selling all my munition shares and investing in a
company that manufactured baby-food. Stephen thought that Rundstedt's Ardennes
counter-offensive would put off the end of the war for another year and a half!"
"Baby-food, eh?" Doctor Vehrner chuckled.
Colonel Hampton sipped his whiskey slowly, then puffed on his cigar. "No, this pair were
competent liars," he replied. "A good workmanlike liar never makes up a story out of the

whole cloth; he always takes a fabric of truth and embroiders it to suit the situation." He
smiled grimly; that was an accurate description of his own tactical procedure at the
moment. "I hadn't intended this to come out, Doctor, but it happens that I am a convinced
believer in spiritualism. I suppose you'll think that's a delusional belief, too?"
"Well...." Doctor Vehrner pursed his lips. "I reject the idea of survival after death, myself,
but I think that people who believe in such a theory are merely misevaluating evidence. It
is definitely not, in itself, a symptom of a psychotic condition."
"Thank you, Doctor." The Colonel gestured with his cigar. "Now, I'll admit their
statements about my appearing to be in conversation with some invisible or imaginary
being. That's all quite true. I'm convinced that I'm in direct-voice communication with the
spirit of a young girl who was killed by Indians in this section about a hundred and
seventy-five years ago. At first, she communicated by automatic writing; later we
established direct-voice communication. Well, naturally, a man in my position would
dislike the label of spirit-medium; there are too many invidious associations connected
with the term. But there it is. I trust both of you gentlemen will remember the ethics of
your respective professions and keep this confidential."
"Oh, brother!" Dearest was fairly hugging him with delight. "When bigger and better lies
are told, we tell them, don't we, Popsy?"
"Yes, and try and prove otherwise," Colonel Hampton replied, around his cigar. Then he
blew a jet of smoke and spoke to the men in front of him.
"I intend paying for my nephew's hospitalization, and for his wife's funeral," he said.
"And then, I'm going to pack up all his personal belongings, and all of hers; when he's
discharged from the hospital, I'll ship them wherever he wants them. But he won't be
allowed to come back here. After this business, I'm through with him."
T. Barnwell Powell nodded primly. "I don't blame you, in the least, Colonel," he said. "I
think you have been abominably treated, and your attitude is most generous." He was
about to say something else, when the doorbell tinkled and Sergeant Williamson went out
into the hall. "Oh, dear; I suppose that's the police, now," the lawyer said. He grimaced
like a small boy in a dentist's chair.
Colonel Hampton felt Dearest leave him for a moment. Then she was back.
"The ambulance." Then he caught a sparkle of mischief in her mood. "Let's have some
fun, Popsy! The doctor is a young man, with brown hair and a mustache, horn-rimmed
glasses, a blue tie and a tan-leather bag. One of the ambulance men has red hair, and the
other has a mercurochrome-stain on his left sleeve. Tell them your spirit-guide told you."
The old soldier's tobacco-yellowed mustache twitched with amusement.