"Lewis Padgett - Compliments of the Author" - читать интересную книгу автора (Padgett Lewis)

COMPLIMENTS OF THE AUTHOR
by Lewis Padgett (Henry Kuttner and C. L. Moore)

File name: Lewis Padgett - Compliments of the Author 1.0.rtf
Scanned from "Line to Tomorrow" (Bantam Books, August 1954) by drOrlof
First published in "Unknown Worlds", October 1942 (ed. John W. Campbell, Jr)


"I what's good for you," said the cat, "you'll get the hell out of here. But quick!"
F YOU KNOW

Sam Tracy thoughtfully patted the bottle in his topcoat pocket. The gesture was only a momentary confession of
weakness, for the Journal reporter wasn't drunk. He had several vices, including a profitable side line of blackmail, but
dipsomania wasn't one of them. No, there was a simpler explanationтАФventriloquism.
Tracy's gaze went past the cat to where Baldwin Gwinn's house loomed darkly above him, a big, ramshackle place
in an isolated section of Laurel Canyon. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. Tracy didn't want witnesses during
his impending interview with Gwinn. Gwinn would pay off, of course; the evidence against the man was overwhelming.
And, since Tracy was the only one who possessed that evidence in its entirety, an attempt to collect hush money was
clearly indicated. The principle was nothing new, either in Hollywood or to Sam Tracy. He was a lank, dark, saturnine
man of forty-odd, with a permanent sneer of cynicism on his aquiline face, and a profound trust in his own ability to
come out on top. Till tonight, however, he had not had occasion to cross swords with a magician. But that didn't
matter: Gwinn had made a mistake, and the result should mean cash in the bank for Tracy. He could always use money.
A succession of very interesting blondes, to which he was partial, the Santa Anita track, the casinos along the Sunset
Strip, and zombies, minks, and melodious bowlingsтАФthe Hollywood equivalent of wine, women, and songтАФcombined
to keep the bank account overdrawn. But Tracy had excellent connections, and was always willing to suppress a
scandal, C.O.D. He never put the squeeze on widows or orphans, either. They seldom had money.
Now in one pocket he had a bottle of whiskey, in another certain significant photostats, and in a third a useful
little automatic, very handy for bluffing his way out of tight spots. It was night. Gwinn's house was in a pocket of the
Hollywood Hills, isolated, though a few lights gleamed from distant slopes. Stars and a spotlight of a moon were garish
overhead. The reporter's sleek dark coupe was parked unobtrusively under a pepper tree, and a fat black cat with white
mittens of paws sat on the curbstone twitching its whiskers at Sam Tracy.
"Ventriloquism, Mr. Gwinn," said the reporter gently, "is O.K. for the sticks. But don't waste it on me."
"Ventriloquism, hell," the cat replied, glaring balefully. "Don't you know a familiar when you see one? Baldy
knows you're coming, and he's all upset. I'd hate to lose him. He's a fine master. I warn you, louse, that if you hurt
Baldy, I, personally, will take steps."
Tracy aimed a kick at the cat, but it was deftly avoided. The creature cursed in a fervid undertone and went
behind a convenient bush, from which low, searing oaths proceeded. Tracy's cynical sneer increased in intensity. He
walked up the steps and rang the bell.
"The door's open," said the cat. "You're expected."


Tracy shrugged and obeyed. The room in which he found himself was big, comfortably furnished, and didn't look at all
like the home of a practicing magician. Etchings hung on the walls. A Bokhara rug, slightly singed, was on the floor. At
a big table by the window a fat man with a cast in one eye was sitting, staring down unhappily at an open book before
him.
"Hello, Gwinn," the reporter said.
Gwinn sighed and looked up. "Hello, Tracy. Sit down. Cigar?"
"No, thanks. You know me?"
Gwinn pointed to a crystal ball un a tripod in one corner.
"I saw you in that. You won't believe it, of course, but I'm really a magician."